UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 

U.C.    Library 


OUT   AND   ABOUT   LONDON 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 
NIGHTS  IN  LONDON 

"  Hundreds  of  books  have  been  written 
about  London,  but  few  are  as  well  worth 
reading  as  this." — London  Times. 

"  Thomas  Burke  writes  of  London  as  Kip- 
ling wrote  of  India." — Baltimore  Sun. 

"A  real  book." — Neiv  York  Sun. 
4th  printing,  $i.>;o 
HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


OUT  AND  ABOUT 
LONDON 


BY 


THOMAS    BURKE 

AUTHOR  OP  "  LIMEHOUSE  NIGHTS  " 
AND  "mights  in  LONDON  " 


NEW    YORK 

HENRY   HOLT   AND    COMPANY 
1919 


Copyright,  igig 

BY 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 


n 


1916 

Lady,  the  world  is  old,  and  we  are  young. 

The  world  is  old  to-night  and  full  of  tears 
And  tumbled  dreams,  and  all  its  songs  are  sung. 

And  echoes  rise  no  more  from  the  tombed  years. 
Lady,  the  world  is  old,  but  we  are  young. 

Once  only  shines  the  mellow  moon  so  fair; 

One  speck  of  Time  is  Love's  Eternity. 
Once  only  can  the  stars  so  light  your  hair, 

And  the  night  make  your  eyes  my  psaltery. 
Lady,  the  world  is  old.    Love  still  is  young. 

Let  us  take  hand  ere  the  swift  moment  end. 

My  heart  is  but  a  lamp  to  light  your  way,^ 
My  song  your  counsellor,  my  love  your  friend. 

Your  soul  the  shrine  whereat  I  kneel  and  pray. 
Lady,  the  world  grows  old.    Let  us  be  young. 

T.B. 


501541 


\ 


I 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


Round  the  Town,  1917 3 

Back  to  Dockland 30 

Chinatown   Revisited 40 

SoHO  Carries  On 58 

Out  of  Town 69 

In  Search  of  a  Show 82 

Vodka  and  Vagabonds 89 

The  Kids'  Man 113 

Crowded  Hours 123 

Saturday  Night 134 

Rendezvous 140 

Tragedy  and  Cockneyism 148 

Mine  Ease  at  Mine  Inn 155 

Relics 168 

Attaboy! 176 


OUT   AND    ABOUT    LONDON 


ROUND  THE  TOWN,  19 17 

It  was  a  lucid,  rain-washed  morning — one  of 
those  rare  mornings  when  London  seems  to  laugh 
before  you,  disclosing  her  random  beauties.  In 
every  park  the  trees  were  hung  with  adolescent 
tresses,  green  and  white  and  yellow,  and  the  sky 
was  busy  with  scudding  clouds.  Even  the  solemn 
bricks  had  caught  something  of  the  sudden  colour 
of  the  day,  and  London  seemed  to  toss  in  its  long, 
winter  sleep  and  to  take  the  heavy  breaths  of  the 
awakening  sluggard. 

I  turned  from  my  Fleet  Street  window  to  my 
desk,  took  my  pen,  found  it  in  good  working 
order,  and  put  it  down.  I  was  hoping  that  it 
would  be  damaged,  or  that  the  ink  had  run  out; 
I  like  to  deceive  myself  with  some  excuse  for  not 
working.  But  on  this  occasion  none  presented 
itself  save  the  call  of  the  streets  and  the  happy 
aspect  of  things,  and  I  made  these  serve  my  pur- 
pose. With  me  it  is  always  thus.  Let  there  come 
the  first  sharp  taste  of  Spring  in  the  February  air 
and  I  am  demoralized.     Away  with  labour.     The 

3 


4  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

sun  is  shining.  The  sky  is  bland.  There  are 
seven  hundred  square  miles  of  London  in  which 
Adventure  is  shyly  lurking  for  those  who  will 
seek  her  out.  What  about  it?  So  I  drew  five 
pounds  from  the  cash-box,  stuffed  it  into  my 
waistcoat-pocket,  and  let  myself  loose,  feeling,  as 
the  phrase  goes,  that  I  didn't  care  if  it  snowed. 
And  as  I  walked,  there  rose  in  my  heart  a  silly 
song,  with  no  words  and  no  tune;  or,  if  any 
words,  something  like — how  does  it  go? — 

Boys  and  girls,  come  out  to  play — 
Hi-ti-hiddley-hi-ti-hay ! 

But  the  fool  is  bent  upon  a  twig.  I  found  the 
boys  preoccupied  and  the  girls  unwearied  in  war- 
work.  One  good  comrade  of  the  highways  and 
byways  had  married  a  wife;  and  therefore  he 
could  not  come.  Another  had  bought  a  yoke  of 
oxen,  and  must  needs  go  and  prove  them — as 
though  they  were  a  problem  of  Euclid.  Luckily, 
I  ran  against  Caradoc  Evans,  disguised  in  a 
false  beard,  in  order  to  escape  the  fury  of  the 
London  Welshmen,  and  looking  like  the  advance 
agent  of  a  hard  winter.  Seeing  my  silly,  hark- 
halloa  face,  he  inquired  what  was  up.  T  explained 
that  I  was  out  for  a  day's  amusement — the  first 


ROUND  THE  TOWN,  1917  5 

chance  I  had  had  since  19 14.  Whereupon,  he 
ran  me  into  a  little  place  round  the  corner,  and 
bought  me  an  illicit  drink  at  an  hour  when  the 
minatory  finger  of  Lord  d'Abernon  was  still  wag- 
ging; and  informed  me  with  tears  in  the  voice, 
and  many  a  "  boy  bach,"  and  "  old  bloke,"  and 
"  Indeed,"  that  this  was  the  Year  of  Grace  1917, 
and  that  London  was  not  amusing. 

It  was  not  until  the  third  drink  that  I  discov- 
ered how  right  he  was.  As  a  born  Cockney,  living 
close  to  London  every  minute  of  my  life,  I  had 
not  noticed  the  slow  change  in  the  face  and  soul 
of  London.  I  had  long  been  superficially  aware 
that  something  was  gone  from  the  streets  and  the 
skies,  but  the  feeling  was  no  more  definite  than 
that  of  the  gourmet  whose  palate  hints  that  the 
cook  has  left  something — It  cannot  say  what — 
out  of  the  soup.  It  was  left  for  the  swift  percep- 
tion of  the  Immigrant  Welshman  to  apprise  me 
fully  of  the  truth.  But  once  It  was  presented  to 
me,  I  saw  it  too  clearly.  My  search  for  amuse- 
ment, I  knew  then,  was  at  an  end,  and  what  had 
promised  to  be  an  empurpling  of  the  town  seemed 
like  to  degenerate  into  a  spelling-bee.  Of  course, 
I  might  have  gone  back  to  my  desk;  but  the  Spring 
had  worked  too  far  into  my  system  to  allow  even 


6  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

a  moment's  consideration  of  that  alternative. 
There  remained  nothing  to  do  but  to  wander,  and 
to  pray  for  a  glimpse  of  that  tempestuous  petti- 
coat of  youth  that  deserted  us  in  19 14.  It  was  a 
forlorn  pursuit:  I  knew  I  would  never  touch  its 
hem. 

I  never  did.  I  wandered  all  day  with  Caradoc 
bach,  and  we  did  this  and  we  did  that,  while  I 
strove  to  shake  from  my  shoulders  the  bundle  of 
dismay  that  seemed  fastened  there.  The  young 
men  having  gone  to  war,  the  streets  were  filled 
with  middle-aged  women  of  thirty,  in  short  skirts, 
trying  to  attract  the  aged  satyrs,  the  only  men 
that  remained,  by  pretending  to  be  little  girls. 
At  mid-day,  that  hour  when,  throughout  London, 
you  may  hear  the  symphony  of  swinging  gates  and 
creaking  bolts,  we  paid  hurried  calls  at  the  old 
haunts.  They  were  either  empty  or  filled  with 
new  faces.  Rule's,  in  Maiden  Lane,  was  de- 
serted. The  Bodega  had  been  besieged  by,  and 
had  capitulated  to,  the  Colonial  army.  Mooney's 
had  become  the  property  of  the  London  Irish. 
The  vociferous  rehearsal  crowds  had  decamped 
from  the  Bedford  Head,  and  left  it  to  strayed 
and  gloomy  Service  men.  who  cnred  nothing  for 
its  traditions;  and  Yates's  Wine  Lodge,  the  home 


ROUND  THE  TOWN,  1917  7 

of  the  blue-chinned  laddies  looking  for  a  shop, 
was  filled  with  women  war-workers. 

Truly,  London  was  no  more  herself.  The 
word  carried  no  more  the  magical  quality  with 
which  of  old  time  it  was  endued.  She  was  no 
more  the  intellectual  centre,  or  the  political  centre, 
or  the  social  centre  of  the  world.  She  was  not 
even  an  English  city,  like  Leeds  or  Sheffield  or 
Birmingham.  She  was  a  large  city  with  a  popu- 
lation of  nondescript  millions. 

This  I  realized  more  clearly  when,  a  week  or 
so  after  our  tour,  an  American,  whom  I  was  con- 
ducting round  London,  asked  me  to  show  him 
something  typically  English.  I  couldn't.  I  tried 
to  take  him  to  an  English  restaurant.  There  was 
none.  Even  the  old  chop-houses,  under  prevail- 
ing restrictions,  were  offering  manufactured  food 
like  spaghetti  and  disguised  offal.  I  turned  to 
the  programmes  of  the  music-halls.  Here  again 
England  was  frozen  out  There  were  come- 
dians from  France,  jugglers  from  Japan,  con- 
jurers from  China,  trick-cyclists  from  Belgium, 
weight-lifters  from  Australia,  buck-dancers  from 
America,  and  .  .  .  England,  with  all  thy  faults 
I  love  thee  still;  but  do  take  a  bit  of  interest  in 
yourself.     A   stranger,   arriving  from   overseas^ 


8  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

might  suppose  that  the  war  was  over,  and  that 
London  was  in  the  hands  of  the  conquerors.  This 
impression  he  might  receive  from  a  single  glance 
at  our  streets.  The  Strand  at  the  moment  of 
writing  is  blocked  for  pedestrian  traffic  by  Aus- 
tralians and  New  Zealanders;  Piccadilly  Circus 
belongs  to  the  Belgians  and  the  French;  and  the 
Americans  possess  Belgravia.  Canadian  cafe- 
terias are  doing  good  business  round  West- 
minster; French  coffee-bars  are  thriving  in  the 
Shaftesbury  Avenue  district;  Belgian  restaurants 
occupy  the  waste  corners  around  Kingsway;  and 
two  more  Chinese  restaurants  have  lately  been 
opened  in  the  West  End. 

The  common  Cockney  seemed  to  walk  almost 
fearfully  about  his  invaded  streets,  hardly  daring 
to  be  himself  or  talk  his  own  language.  Apart 
from  the  foreign  tongues,  which  always  did  an- 
noy his  ear,  foul  language  now  assailed  him  from 
every  side:  "no  bon,"  "napoo,"  "gadget," 
"  camouflaged,"  "  buckshee,"  "  bonza,"  and  so 
on.  This  is  not  good  slang.  Good  slang  has  a 
quality  of  its  own — a  bite  and  spit  and  fine  ex- 
pressiveness which  do  not  belong  to  dictionary 
words.  That  is  its  justification — the  supplying 
of  a  lacking  shade  of  expression,  not  the  sup- 


ROUND  THE  TOWN,  1917  9 

planting  of  adequate  forms.  The  old  Cockney 
slang  did  justify  itself,  but  this  modern  Army 
rubbish,  besides  being  uncouth,  is  utterly  meaning- 
less, and  might  have  been  invented  by  some  idiot 
schoolboy:  probably  was. 

After  some  search,  we  found  a  quiet  corner  in 
a  bar  where  the  perverted  stuff  was  not  being 
talked,  and  there  we  gave  ourselves  to  recalling 
the  little  joyous  jags  that  marked  the  progress 
of  other  years.  I  was  dipping  the  other  night 
into  a  favourite  bedside  book  of  mine — here  I'd 
like  to  put  in  a  dozen  pages  on  bedside  books — 
a  Social  Calendar  for  1909;  a  rich  reliquary  for 
the  future  historian;  and  was  shocked  on  noting 
the  number  of  simple  festivals  which  are  now 
ruled  out  of  our  monotonous  year.  Do  you  re- 
member them?  Chestnut  Sunday  at  Bushey 
Park — City  and  Suburban — Derby  and  Oaks — 
Ascot  Sunday  at  Maidenhead — Cup  Tie  at  the 
Crystal  Palace — Spring  week-ends  by  the  sea — 
evening  taxi  jaunts  to  Richmond  and  Staines — 
gay  nights  at  the  Empire  and  the  adjoining  bars 
— supper  after  the  theatre — moonlight  trips  in 
the  summer  season  down  river  to  the  Nore — polo 
at  Ranelagh — cricket  at  Lord's  and  the  Oval — 
the  Boat  Race — Henley  week — Earl's  Court  and 


10  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

White  City  Exhibitions,  where  one  could  finish 
the  evening  on  the  wiggle-woggle,  as  a  final 
flicker.  And  now  they  have  just  delivered  the 
most  brutal  blow  of  all.  Having  robbed  us  of  our 
motors  and  our  cheap  railways,  they  have  stolen 
away  from  the  working-man  his  (and  my)  chlef- 
est  delight — the  beanfeast  wagonette.  (How  I 
would  have  loved  to  take  Henry  James  on  one  of 
these  jags.)  The  disappearance  of  this  delight 
of  the  summer  season  is,  at  the  moment,  so  acute 
and  so  personal  a  grief,  that  I  cannot  trust  my- 
self to  speak  of  it.  I  must  withdraw,  and  leave 
F.  W.  Thomas  (of  The  Star)  to  deliver  the 
valedictory  address : — 

This  spells  the  death  of  yet  another  old  English  institution. 
One  cannot  go  beanfeasting  in  traps  and  pony  carts.  There 
would  be  no  room  for  the  cornet  man,  and  without  his  dis- 
tended cheeks  and  dreadful  harmony  the  picture  would  be 
incomplete. 

That  was  a  great  day  when  we  met  at  the  works  in  the 
morning,  all  in  our  best  clothes  and  squeaky  boots,  all  sporting 
large  buttonholes  and  cigars  of  the  rifle-range  brand. 

With  the  yellow  stone  jars  safely  stowed  under  the  seat  and 
the  cornet  man  perched  at  the  driver's  left  hand,  we  started 
off.  Usually  the  route  lay  through  Shoreditch  and  Hackney 
to  Clapton,  and  so  to  the  green  fields  of  the  Lea  Bridge  Road. 

For  the  first  hour  of  the  journey  we  were  quiet,  early- 
morningish,  and  a  little  reminiscent,  recalling  the  glories  of 
past  beanfeasts.  The  cornet  man  tootled  half-heartedlv,  with 
many  rests  and  much  licking  of  dry  lips.  Not  until  the 
"  Greyhound "   was   passed    did    he   get   well    under   way,    and 


ROUND  THE  TOWN,  1917  11 

then  there  was  no  stopping  him.  His  face  got  redder  and 
redder  as  he  blasted  his  way  through  his  repertoire;  a  feast 
of  music  covering  the  years  between  "  Champagne  Charlie " 
and  Marie  Lloyd. 

At  the  end  of  the  drive  the  horses  were  put  up  and  baited, 
and  the  merry  beanfeasters  spread  themselves  and  their  melody 
through  the  glades  of  Loughton  or  High  Beech,  with  cold 
roast  beef  and  pickles  at  Queen  Elizabeth's  Hunting  Lodge  or 
the  "  Robin  Hood." 

And  who  does  not  remember  that  joyful  homeward  journey, 
with  the  cornet  man,  now  ruddier  than  the  cherry,  blaring 
"Little  Brown  Jug"  from  well-oiled  lungs,  while  behind  him 
the  revellers  sang  "As  your  hair  prows  whiter,"  and  an 
accordion  in  the  back  seats  bleated  "  The  Miner's  Dream." 

As  Herbert  Campbell  used  to  sing  in  the  old  days: — 

Then  up  I  came  with  my  little  lot. 
And  the  air  went  blue  for  miles; 
The  trees  all  shook  and  the  copper  took  his  hook, 
And  down  came  all  the  tiles. 


That  was  the  real  tit-bit  of  the  beanfeast,  the  rollicking 
homeward  drive,  with  the  brake  embowered  in  branches  of 
trees  raped  from  the  Forest,  and  lit  by  swaying  Chinese  lan- 
terns and  great  bunches  of  dahlias  bought  from  the  cottagers 
of  Loughton,  and  Chingford. 

One  always  took  home  a  bunch  of  flowers  from  a  beanfeast, 
and  maybe  a  pint  of  shrimps  for  the  missus,  and  some  acorns 
for  the  youngsters,  or  a  gilded  mug. 

The  defunct  brake  had  other  uses  than  this.  Sometimes  it 
took  parties  of  solemn  old  ladies  in  beads  and  black  to  an 
orgy  of  tea  and  cake  in  the  grounds  of  the  "  Leg  of  Mutton  " 
at  Chadwell  Heath.  These  were  prim  affairs.  Mothers' 
Meeting  from  the  little  red  church  round  the  corner.  They  had 
no  cornet,  and  the  smiling  parson  rode  in  the  seat  assigned  to 
Orpheus. 

The  youngsters,  too,  had  their  days — riotous  days  shrill  with 
song  and  gay  with  coloured  streamers,  air-balloons  and  trura- 


12  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

pets.  How  merrily  they  would  bellow  that  they  were  "  all 
a-going  to  Rye  House,  so  '  Ip-ip-ip-ooray !  '  "  though  their  des- 
tination was  Burnham  Beeches  or  Brickett  Wood. 

Rubber-neck  parties  of  American  tourists  occasionally  saw 
the  sights  of  London  from  brakes  and  wagonettes;  solemn 
people,  who  for  all  the  signs  of  holiday  they  displayed  might 
have  been  driving  to  Tyburn  Tree. 

But  the  real  reason  for  the  brake  was  the  beanfeast  with 
its  attendant  cornet  man  and  its  rubicund  driver  with  his  white 
topper  and  the  little  boys  running  behind  and  stealing  rides 
on  the  back  step.  Until  the  war  is  over  Epping  will  know  them 
no  more,  and  the  nightingales  of  Fairlop  Plain  will  sing  to  the 
moon  undisturbed. 


We  lunched  at  the  "  Trocadero,"  where  a 
friend  on  the  staff  put  us  in  the  right  place  and 
put  before  us  the  right  food  and  the  right  wine. 
The  rooms  looked  like  a  Service  mess-room. 
Every  guest  looked  like  every  other  guest.  Men 
and  women  alike  had  fallen  victims  to  that  devas- 
tating plague  of  uniforms,  and  all  charm,  all 
significance,  had  been  obliterated  by  this  murrain 
of  khaki  and  blue  serge.  The  suave  curves  of 
feminine  dress  had  been  ironed  out  by  the  harsh 
hand  of  the  standardizer,  and  in  their  place  we 
saw  only  the  sullen  lines  of  the  Land  Girls'  rig 
making  juts  and  points  with  the  rigidities  of  the 
Women's  Army  Corps  and  Women's  Police  garb. 
The  Vorticists  ought  to  be  thankful  for  the  war. 
It  accomplished  in  one  stroke  what,  in  19 14,  they 


ROUND  THE  TOWN,  1917  I3 

were  feverishly  attempting:  it  turned  life  into  a 
wilderness  of  angles. 

"  Clothes,"  said  Carlyle,  "  gave  us  individ- 
uality, distinction,  social  polity."  He  ought  to 
see  us  now.  Standard  Bread,  Standard  Suits, 
Standard  This,  and  Standard  That.  .  .  .  The 
very  word  "  standard  "  must  now  be  so  uni- 
versally loathed  by  men  who  have  managed  to 
conceal  from  the  controllers  some  remnants  of 
character,  that  I  wonder  the  Evening  Standard 
manages  to  retain  its  popularity  without  a  change 
of  title.  If  standardizing  really  helped  matters, 
nobody  could  complain;  but  can  Dogberry  aver 
that  it  does?  Does  it  not,  in  practice,  rather  hin- 
der than  help?  In  railway  carriages  the  bottlefed 
citizen  girds  against  all  this  aimless  interference 
with  his  daily  life;  but  his  protests  are  no  more 
considerable  than  that  of  the  victim  in  the  melo- 
drama :  "  Have  a  care,  Sir  Aubrey,  have  a  care. 
You  have  ruined  me  sister.  You  have  murdered 
me  wife.  You  have  cast  me  aged  father  into 
prison.  You  have  seduced  me  son.  You  have 
sold  up  me  home.  But  beware.  Sir  Aubrey,  be- 
ware. I  am  a  man  of  quick  temper.  Don't  go  too 
far." 

When  we  looked  round  the  Trocadero,  and  we 


14  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

remembered  the  bright  company  it  once  held,  and 
then  noted  the  tart  aspect  of  the  place  under  or- 
ganization, we  felt  a  little  unwell,  and  dared  to 
wonder  why  efficiency  cannot  walk  with  beauty 
and  the  zeal  for  victory  go  with  grace  and  glad- 
ness. Had  the  marriage,  we  wondered,  been 
tried  by  the  authorities,  and  the  parties  proved  to 
be  so  palpably  incompatible?  Or  was  it  that  they 
had  been  for  ever  sundered  by  some  one  who  mis- 
takes dullness  for  earnestness  and  ugliness  for 
strength  ? 

However,  the  rich  scents  of  well-cooked  offal, 
mingled  with  those  of  wine  and  Oriental  tobacco, 
soothed  us  a  little,  and  we  achieved  a  brief  loosen- 
ing of  the  prevailing  restraint,  and  allowed  our 
thoughts  to  run  without  the  chain.  Our  friend  had 
dug  from  the  depths  of  the  cellar  a  fragrant 
Southern  wine,  true  liquid  sunshine,  tinct  with  the 
odour  of  green  seas;  a  rare  bottle  to  which  I 
made  a  chant-royal  on  the  back  of  the  menu,  and, 
luckily  for  you,  mislaid  the  thing,  or  it  would  be 
printed  here.  We  talked  freely;  not  brilliantly, 
but  with  just  that  touch  of  piquancy  that  stimu- 
lants and  narcotics,  rightly  used,  bestow  upon  the 
brain. 

We  lounged  over  coffee  and  liqueurs,  and  then 


ROUND  THE  TOWN,  1917  15 

strolled  up  the  Avenue  and  called  at  the  establish- 
ment of  "  Mr.  Francis  Downman,"  that  most  dis- 
criminating and  charming  of  wine-merchants — 
discriminating  because  he  has  given  his  life  to  the 
study  of  wines;  charming  because,  away  from  his 
wine-cellars  and  in  his  true  name,  he  is  a  novelist 
whose  books,  so  lit  with  sparkle  and  espieglerie, 
have  carried  fair  breezes  into  many  a  dusty  heart. 
If  you  have  ever  visited  that  old  Queen  Anne 
House  in  Dean  Street  and  glanced  at  "  Mr. 
Downman's  "  Bulletins,  you  will  realize  at  once 
that  here  is  no  ordinary  vendor  of  wines.  Wine 
to  "  Mr.  Downman  "  is  a  serious  matter.  Open- 
ing a  bottle  Is  an  exquisite  ceremony;  drinking  is 
a  sacrament.  I  once  lunched  with  "  Mr.  Down- 
man  "  in  his  cool  Dutch  kitchen  "  over  the  shop," 
and  each  course  was  lovingly  cooked  and  served 
by  his  own  hands,  with  suitable  wines  and  liqueurs. 
It  was  a  lesson  in  simple  and  courtly  living.  How 
pleasant  the  homes  of  England  might  be  if  our 
housewives  would  pay  a  little  attention  to  correct 
kitchen  and  table  amenities.  "  Mr.  Downman  " 
would  be  a  public  benefactor  if  he  would  open  a 
School  of  Kitchen  Wisdom  where  the  little  sub- 
urban wife  might  sit  at  his  feet  and  learn  of  him. 
Yes,  I  know  that  there  are  many  schools  of  cook- 


i6  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

ery  and  housewifery,  but  these  places  are  managed 
by  people  who  only  know  how  to  cook.  "  Mr. 
Downman  "  would  bring  to  the  task  all  those  little 
elegancies  which  make  a  dinner  not  merely  satis- 
factory, but  a  refinement  of  joy.  Feeding,  like  all 
functions  of  the  human  body,  is  a  vulgar  business 
anyway,  but  here  is  a  man  who  can  raise  it  to  the 
dignity  of  a  rite. 

Further,  he  has  shown  us,  in  those  "  Bulletins," 
how  to  turn  advertising  into  one  of  the  minor 
arts.  Perhaps  of  all  the  enormities  which  the 
nineteenth  century  perpetrated  in  its  efforts  to 
make  life  unbearable,  the  greatest  was  the  de- 
basing of  trade.  In  the  eighteenth  century  trade 
was  a  serene  occupation,  as  you  may  see  by 
glancing  at  the  files  of  the  old  Gentleman's  Maga- 
zine, Mirror,  Spectator,  where  announcements  of 
goods  and  merchandise  were  made  in  fine  flowing 
English.  Advertisement  was  then  a  matter  of 
grace,  of  flourish  and  address;  for  people  had 
leisure  in  which  to  receive  gradual  impressions. 
The  merchants  of  that  day  did  not  scream  at  you; 
they  sat  with  you  over  the  fire,  and  held  you  in 
pleasant  converse,  sometimes,  in  their  talk,  throw- 
infT  off  some  persiflage  or  apothegm  that  has  be- 
come immortal.     There  was  a  Mr.  George  Farr, 


ROUND  THE  TOWN,  1917  17 

a  grocer,  circa  1750,  who  issued  some  excellent 
trade  tickets  from  the  "  Beehive  and  Three 
Sugar  Loaves " ;  little  cards,  embellished  with 
dainty  woodcuts  that  bring  to  mind  an  Elzevir 
bookplate;  the  pictures  a  sheer  joy  to  look  upon, 
the  prose  a  delicate  pomp  of  words  that  delights 
the  ear.  Then  there  were  the  trade  cards  of  the 
Goldsmiths'  and  Silversmiths'  Company  of  the 
eighteenth  century,  each  one  the  production  of  a 
true  artist  (Hogarth  did  several),  as  well  as  the 
tobacco  advertisements  of  the  same  period.  In 
the  latter  case,  not  only  were  the  cards  works  of 
art,  but  poetry  was  wooed  and  won  for  the  cause. 
Near  the  old  Surrey  Theatre  lived  one  John 
Mackey,  who  sang  the  praise  of  his  wares  in 
rhyme  and  issued  playbills  purporting  to  an- 
nounce new  tragedies  under  such  titles  as  My 
Snuff-Box,  The  Indian  Weed,  The  True  Friend, 
or  Arrivals  from  Havannah,  The  Last  Pinch,  and 
so  on.  The  cabinet-makers  of  the  eighteenth 
century  also  found  time  to  indite  delicious  morsels 
of  prose  and  prepare  quaint  and  harmonious 
pictures  for  the  delight  of  their  patrons.  Mr. 
Chippendale  and  Mr.  Heppelwhite  were  most 
industrious  in  this  direction,  and  the  Society  of 
Upholsterers  and  Cabinet  Makers  issued,  in  1765, 


1 8  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

a  work  now  very  much  sought  after:  The  Cabinet 
and  Chair  Makers'  Real  Friend  and  Companion. 
But  then,  snorting  and  husthng  hke  a  provin- 
cial alderman,  in  came  the  nineteenth  century, 
with  its  gospel  of  Speed-up;  and  the  result  was 
that  fair  fields  and  stately  streets  scream  harshly 
in  your  ears  at  every  turn : — 

Drink  Bingo. 
It  is  the  Best. 

Eat  Dinkydux. 
You'll  hate  it  at  First. 

This  sort  of  thing  continued  for  many  decades, 
when,  happily,  its  potency  became  attenuated,  and 
some  genius  discovered  that  people  were  not  al- 
ways responsive  to  screams;  that,  after  all,  the  old 
way  was  better. 

Thus  literature  returned  and  linked  arms  once 
again  with  trade.  Partly,  the  circularizing  dodge 
was  responsible  for  this,  since,  in  the  circular,  the 
bald  statement  was  hardly  good  enough.  It  was 
found  that  subtle  means  must  be  employed  if  you 
are  striving  to  catch  a  man's  attention  at  the  break- 


ROUND  THE  TOWN,  19 17  I9 

fast-table,  when  sleep  still  crawls  like  a  slug  about 
the  brain  and  temper  is  uncertain.  Nothing  is  so 
riling  to  the  educated  person  as  to  have  ungram- 
matical  circulars  dropped  in  his  letter-box.  Their 
effect  is  that  he  heartily  detests  the  article  adver- 
tised, not  because  he  has  tried  it  and  found  it 
wanting,  but  because  of  the  split  infinitive  or  the 
infirm  phrase.  So  the  whoop  and  the  yell  gave 
place  to  the  full-flowered  essay  sprigged  with  the 
considered  phrase.  And  to  my  mind  the  best  of 
all  contemporary  efforts  in  this  direction  are 
"Mr.  Downman's"  "Bulletins,"  of  which  I 
have  a  complete  set.  Here  a  fastidious  pen  is 
delightfully  employed;  and  not  the  pen  only,  but 
the  taste  of  the  book-lover.  Indeed,  they  are 
lovable  productions,  having  all  the  gracious  re- 
sponse to  the  eye  and  the  touch  of  Mr.  Arthur 
Humphreys'  anthologies  of  seventeenth-century 
poetry.  Everything — format,  type,  paper,  and 
Elian  style — breathes  an  air  of  serendipity. 

The  first  part  of  each  "  Bulletin  "  consists  of  a 
number  of  essays  on  questions  pertaining  to  wine 
and  wine-drinking;  the  second  half  is  a  catalogue 
of  "  Mr.  Downman's  "  wines  and  their  current 
prices,  with  specimen  labels,  which  are  such  gentle 
harmonies  of  line  and  colour  that  one  is  tempted 


20  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

to    start    collecting    them.     "  Mr.     Downman " 
opens  his  addresses  in  the  grand  manner: — 


My  Lords,  Reverend  Fathers,  Ladies  and 
Gentlemen. 

And  if  you  love  your  Elia,  then  you  must  read 
"  Mr.  Downman  "  on  Decanters  and  Decanting, 
On  Corkscrews,  On  How  to  Drink  Wine,  On 
Bottling,  On  Patriotism  and  Wines,  On  the  Suit- 
ing of  Food  to  Wine,  On  Wines  at  Picnics.  His 
sharp-flavoured  prose,  full  of  sly  nuances  and  co- 
quettish conceits,  has  all  the  tone  of  the  best 
claret.    Hear  him  on  salads : — 


This  is  the  time  of  salads.  And  a  good  salad  means  good 
oil.  It  also  means  good  vinegar,  or  a  fresh  and  juicy  lime  or 
lemon.  Now  the  Almighty  has  given  us  better  tools  for  salad- 
making  than  any  wooden  fork  or  spoon.  In  conditions  of 
homely  intimacy,  a  salad-maker,  when  all  is  ready,  will  wash 
his  hands  well  and  long  as  the  moment  approaches  for  serving 
the  bowl.  He  will  shun  common  or  perfumed  soaps,  and  will 
use  nothing  but  a  soap  made  from  olive  oil.  Having  dried  his 
hands  perfectly  on  a  warm,  clean  towel,  he  will  finally  whisk 
the  cup  of  dressing  into  homogeneity,  will  pour  its  contents 
over  the  salad,  and  will  immediately  proceed  to  wring  the 
leaves  in  the  liquid  as  a  washerwoman  wrings  clothes  in  soapy 
water.  (Aow  horrid!)  In  doing  this  he  will  spoil  the  appear- 
ance of  rome  of  the  leaves,  but  he  will  have  a  salad  fit  for  the 
gods. 


ROUND  THE  TOWN,  1917  21 

After  sampling  a  noble  Madeira  in  his  cellar 
cool,  in  William  and  Mary  Yard,  we  resumed 
our  crawl,  and  in  the  black  evening  made  a  tour 
of  other  of  the  old  places.  At  the  Cafe  de 
I'Europe,  Mr.  Jacobs,  leader  of  the  band,  played 
for  us  a  few  old  waltzes  and  morceaux  reeking  of 
the  spirit  of  1912;  but  even  he  did  not  handle  the 
fiddle,  or  seem  to  care  to  handle  it,  in  his  old 
happy  manner.  Like  the  rest  of  us,  I  suppose,  he 
felt  that  it  wasn't  worth  while;  it  didn't  matter. 
We  called  at  the  "  Gambrinus,"  now  owned  by 
a  Belgian;  at  the  old  "Sceptre,"  for  a  coupon's 
worth  of  boiled  beef;  and  so  to  the  Cafe  Royal. 

Here  we  received  a  touch  or  two  from  the  old 
times.  War  has  killed  many  lovely  things,  but, 
though  it  maim  and  break,  it  cannot  wholly  kill 
the  things  of  the  spirit,  and  in  the  "  Royal  "  we 
found  that  art  was  still  a  living  thing;  ideas  were 
still  being  discussed  as  though  they  mattered. 
Epstein  and  Augustus  John,  both  in  uniform,  were 
there,  and  Austin  Harrison  had  his  usual  group 
of  poets.  It  was  reassuring  to  see  the  old  domino- 
playing  Frenchmen,  who  seem  part  of  the  fixtures 
of  the  place,  in  their  accustomed  corner.  The 
girls  seemed  to  have  packed  away  their  affright- 
ing   futurist    gowns,    and    were    arrayed    more 


22  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

soberly.  That  night  they  seemed  to  be  more  like 
human  creatures,  and  less  like  deliberate  Bo- 
hemians. 

I  am  not  overfond  of  the  Cafe  Royal,  but  it  is 
one  of  the  West  End  shows  which  visitors  feel 
they  must  see;  and  when  any  provincial  visitors 
wonder:  "  Why  is  the  Cafe  Royal?  "  I  have  one 
answer  for  them:  "  Henri  Murger." 

It  is  certain  that,  but  for  Murger,  there  would 
be  no  Chelsea  and  no  Cafe  Royal.  That  man 
has  a  lot  to  answer  for.  I  doubt  if  any  one  man 
(I'm  not  including  kings)  has  wrought  so  much 
havoc  in  young  lives.  He  meant  to  warn  youth 
of  danger;  he  actually  drove  youth  towards  it. 

Any  discussion  which  seeks  to  name  the  most 
dangerous  book  in  the  world  is  certain  to  bring 
mention  of  Rousseau's  Confessions,  of  Paine's 
Age  of  Reason,  of  Artzibashef's  Sanine,  of  Bau- 
delaire's Fleurs  de  Mai,  and  other  works  of  sub- 
versive tendency.  The  one  book  which  has  really 
done  more  harm  to  young  people  than  any  other 
is  seldom  remembered  in  this  connection.  That 
book  is  Scenes  de  la  Vie  de  Bohcme;  and  it  is  dan- 
gerous, not  that  it  contains  a  line  of  obscenity  or 
blasphemy,  no*-  that  it  teaches  evil  as  higher  than 
good,  but  because  it  founded  a  cult  and  taught 


ROUND  THE  TOWN,  1917  23 

young  people  how  to  ruin  their  lives.  Bohemian- 
ism  has,  of  course,  existed  since  the  world  began; 
rebels  have  always  been;  but  it  remained  for 
Murger  to  find  a  name  for  it  and  make  a  cult  of  it. 

The  dangers  of  this  cult  to  young  people  lay 
not  in  its  being  an  evil  cult,  but  in  its  being  per- 
haps as  fine  a  cult  as  any  of  the  world's  great 
creeds:  the  cult  of  human  sympathy  and  gener- 
osity. The  Bohemian  makes  friends  with  all 
kinds  and  all  creeds — sinners  and  saints,  rich  and 
poor;  he  cares  nothing  so  long  as  they  be  kindly. 
And  there  lay  the  danger,  for  the  blood  of  youth, 
freed  from  all  restraint,  was  certain  to  overdo  it. 
It  became  a  cult  of  excess.  Murger  died,  but  he 
left  behind  him  a  very  bitter  legacy  to  the  coming 
generation.  As  that  legacy  passed  through  the 
years  it  gathered  various  adhesions — such  as 
Wilde's  "  In  order  to  be  an  artist  it  is  first  neces- 
sary to  ruin  one's  health,"  and  Flaubert's  "  Noth- 
ing succeeds  like  excess";  so  that  very  soon  art 
colonies  became  things  discredited,  unpleasant  to 
the  nostrils  of  the  righteous. 

Murger  himself  saw  the  life  very  clearly,  for 
he  described  it  as  "  Vie  gai  et  terrible  ";  and  he 
takes  no  pains  to  present  to  us  only  the  lighter, 
warmer  side  of  it.     He  shows  us  everything;  yet, 


24  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

so  diabolical  is  his  manner,  that,  even  after  pass- 
ing the  tragedy  of  the  closing  pages,  the  book 
and  the  life  it  pictures  call  to  every  one  of  us 
with  song  in  his  blood  and  the  spirit  of  April  in 
his  heart. 

It  first  appeared  as  a  feuilleton  in  a  Paris  daily, 
and  Murger,  with  characteristic  insouciance, 
wrote  his  instalments  only  a  few  hours  before  the 
time  when  they  were  due  for  the  printer;  and 
when  he  was  stumped  for  material,  he  invented 
a  little  story.  Hence  that  singularly  beautiful 
tale,  slammed  into  the  middle  of  the  book — the 
Story  of  Francine's  Muff — which  forms  the  open- 
ing scene  of  Puccini's  opera  founded  on  the  novel. 
The  book  has  neither  balance  nor  cohesion,  and 
in  this  it  catches  its  note  from  its  theme.  It  is 
a  cinematographic!  succession  of  scenes,  tender 
and  passionate  and  gay;  swift  and  hectic.  He 
invented  and  employed  the  picture-palace  manner 
in  literature  before  the  picture-palace  was  even 
conceived.  The  very  style  is  feverish,  and  from 
it  one  visualizes  the  desperately  merry  Bohemian 
slaving  with  pen  and  paper  in  his  high  garret, 
and  whipping  his  flagging  brain  with  fierce  stim- 
ulant, while  the  printer's  boy  sits  on  the  door- 
step. 


ROUND  THE  TOWN,  1917  25 

It  stands  alone.  There  is  no  book  in  the  liter- 
ature of  the  world  quite  like  it.  It  is  the  chal- 
lenge of  youth  and  beauty  to  the  world;  and  if 
we — grown  wise  and  weary  in  the  struggle — find 
a  note  of  ferocity  and  extravagance  in  the  chal- 
lenge, then  let  us  judge  with  understanding,  and 
remember  that  it  is  a  case  of  the  fine  and  the 
weak  against  the  brutal  and  the  ignorant.  Mur- 
ger's  voice  is  the  voice  of  protesting  youth.  He 
is  illogical;  so  is  youth.  He  is  furious;  so  is 
youth.  He  is  heroic;  so  is  youth.  He  is  half-mad 
with  indignation  and  half-mad  with  the  joy  of 
living;  so  is  youth.  It  is  by  its  very  waywardness 
and  disregard  of  values  that  the  book  captures  us. 

There  is  no  other  book  in  which  the  spirit  of 
Paris  breathes  more  easily.  Here  we  have  the 
essential  Paris,  just  as  in  Thomas  Dekker  we 
have  the  essential  London.  Poets,  novelists  and 
essayists  have  set  themselves  again  and  again  to 
ensnare  the  elusive  Paris  between  the  covers  of  a 
book;  but  Murger  alone — though  he  writes  of 
Paris  in  1830 — has  succeeded.  Those  who  have 
never  been  to  Paris  should  first  read  his  book; 
then,  when  they  do  go,  they  will  experience  the 
sense  of  coming  back  to  some  known  place. 

It  was  this  insidious  book  that  first  tempted 


26  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

youth  to  escape  from  a  hidebound  world;  showed 
it  the  way  out — a  way  beset  by  dehghtful  hazards. 
It  offered  to  all  the  golden  boys  and  girls  a  new 
Utopia,  and  they  were  fain  to  visit  it.  That  it 
was  a  false  world  troubled  them  not  at  all.  The 
green  glass,  the  delirious  midnight  hours,  and  the 
pale  loveliness  of  Mimi  and  Musette  were,  per- 
haps, shackles  as  binding  and  as  fearful  as  those 
of  Convention.  But  anything  to  escape  from  the 
irk  and  thrall  of  their  narrow  reahties;  so  away 
they  went,  and  the  end  of  the  story  is  written  in 
the  archives  of  the  Morgue. 

After  seventy  years,  however,  the  middle  way 
has  been  found.  There  are  few  tragedies  to-day 
in  the  Quartier  Latin,  and  very  little  gaiety  or 
kindliness;  none  of  the  old  adventurous  spirit. 
Things  are  going  too  well  in  the  studio-world 
these  days.  Chelsea  and  Montmartre  have  been 
invaded  by  the  American  dilettanti,  whose  lives 
are  one  long  struggle  to  be  Bohemians  on  a 
thousand  a  year.  If,  however,  there  be  those 
who  regard  this  state  of  things  as  an  improve- 
ment on  the  old,  then  let  it  be  remembered  that 
this  way  was  only  found  after  Murger  had 
wrecked  his  own  life  and  the  lives  of  those  who 
followed  so  gaily  the  unkind  path  down  which  he 


ROUND  THE  TOWN,  1917  27 

led  them.  It  is  a  pitiful  catalogue;  the  more 
pitiful  since  so  many  of  the  young  dead  are 
anonymous — the  young  men  who  might,  had  they 
lived,  have  given  the  world  so  much  of  beauty, 
but  who  were  unable  to  pull  up  short  of  the  prec- 
ipice. Some  of  them,  of  course,  we  know:  Gerard 
de  Nerval,  Barbey  d'Aurevilly,  Baudelaire,  Ver- 
laine,  Ernest  Dowson;  and  their  London  monu- 
ment is  the  Cafe  Royal. 

***** 

At  half-past  nine  all  fun  ceased,  but  we  had 
picked  up  a  bunch  from  Fleet  Street,  one  of 
whom  was  taking  home  two  bottles  of  whisky. 
So  we  moved  to  "  another  place,"  and  ordered 
black  coffees  which  drank  tolerably  well — after 
some  swift  surreptitious  business  with  a  cork- 
screw. Later,  we  strolled  across  Oxford  Street 
to  what  remained  of  the  German  Quarter.  We 
visited  various  coffee-bars,  where  our  genial  com- 
rade with  the  bottles  again  did  his  duty;  did  it 
beautifully,  did  it  splendidly,  did  it  with  Vine 
Street  at  his  ear.  And  in  a  grey  street  off  Tot- 
tenham Court  Road  we  found  a  poor  man's 
cabaret.  In  the  back  room  of  a  coflfee-bar  an  en- 
tertainment was  proceeding.  Two  schonk  boys, 
in  straw  hats,  were  at  a  piano,  assisted  by  an 


28  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

anaemic  girl  and  a  real  coal-black  coon,  who  gave 
us  the  essential  rag-times  of  the  South.  The 
place  was  packed  with  the  finest  collection  of  cos- 
mopolitan toughs  I  had  ever  seen  in  one  room. 
The  air,  physical  and  moral,  was  hardly  breath- 
able, and  as  the  boys  were  spoiling  for  a  row,  one 
misinterpreted  glance  would  have  brought  trou- 
ble— and  lots  of  it.  At  different  tables,  voices 
were  raised  in  altercation,  when  not  in  lusty  song, 
and  the  general  impression  the  place  gave  me 
was  that  it  was  a  squalid,  dirty  model  of  the  old 
Criterion  Long  Bar.  All  the  meaner,  more  des- 
perate citizens  of  the  law-breaking  world  were 
gathered  here ;  and,  though  we  had  broken  a  few 
by-laws  ourselves  that  night,  we  were  not  anxious 
to  be  led  into  any  more  shattering  of  the  Doraic 
tables.  So  at  midnight  we  adjourned  to  "  an- 
other place,"  and  drank  dry  gingers  until  three 
o'clock  in  the  morning.  Then,  to  a  Turkish  Bath, 
and  so  to  bed;  not  very  merry,  but  as  cheered  in 
the  spirit  as  the  humble,  useless  citizen  is  allowed 
to  be  in  a  miserable,  hole-and-corner  way  in  war- 
time. 

Tt  had  been  a  sorry  experience,  this  round  of 
visits,  in  19T",  to  quarters  last  seen  in  1914;  and 
it  made  me  curious  to  know  how  other  familiar 


ROUND  THE  TOWN,  1917  29 

nooks  had  received  the  wanton  assault  of  kings. 
In  the  haphazard  sketches  that  follow  I  have 
tried  to  catch  the  external  war-time  atmosphere 
of  a  few  of  the  old  haunts,  so  far  as  a  poor  re- 
porter may.  Later,  perhaps,  a  better  hand  than 
mine  will  discover  for  us  the  essential  soul  of 
London  under  siege;  and  these  rough  notes  may 
be  of  some  service,  since  all  remembrance  of  that 
time  was  blown  away  from  most  minds  by  the 
maroons  of  Armistice  Day. 


BACK  TO  DOCKLAND 

From  my  earliest  perceiving  moments,  docks  and 
railway  stations  have  been,  for  me,  the  most 
romantic  spots  of  the  city  In  which  I  was  born 
and  bred.  Quays  and  wharves,  cuts,  basins, 
reaches,  steel  tracks  and  passenger  trains,  and  all 
that  belonged  to  the  life  of  the  waterside  and  the 
railway,  spoke  to  me  of  illimitable  travel  and 
distant,  therefore  desirable,  things. 

This  feeling  I  share,  I  suppose,  with  millions 
of  other  men  and  children  who  have  been  reared 
In  coast  cities,  and  whose  minds  respond  to  the 
large  invitations  offered  by  sooty  smoke-stacks  or 
the  dim  outline  of  a  station  roof.  And  If  these 
things  pierced  the  complacence  of  one's  days  In 
the  past,  how  much  deeper  and  more  significant 
their  message  in  those  four  dreadful  years,  when 
men  fared  forth  In  ships  and  trains  to  new  perils 
unlmaglned  In  the  quieter  years. 

That  apart,  I  see  docks  and  railway  stations 
not  In  their  economic  or  historic  aspect,  but  in  the 
picturesque  light,  as,  perhaps,  the  most  emphatic 

30 


BACK  TO  DOCKLAND  31 

glory  of  London.  For  London's  major  archi- 
tectural beauties  I  care  little.  Abbeys,  cathedrals, 
old  churches,  museums,  leave  me  cold;  the  fine 
shudder  about  the  shoulders  I  suffer  most  sharply 
before  those  haphazard  wizardries  of  brick  and 
iron  flung  together  by  the  exigencies  of  modern 
commerce.  Their  fortuitous  ugliness  achieves  a 
new  beauty.  A  random  eye-full  of  such  town- 
scapes  may  yield  only  an  impression  of  squalor, 
but  many  acres  of  squalor  produce,  by  their  very 
vastness,  something  of  the  sublime.  Belching 
chimneys,  flaring  furnaces,  the  solemn  smell  of 
wet  coal  mingled  with  that  of  tar  and  bilge-water, 
and  the  sight  of  brown  sails  and  surly  funnels  and 
swinging  cranes — in  these  misshapen  masses  I  find 
that  delight  that  others  receive  from  contempla- 
tion of  Salisbury  Cathedral  or  a  spire  of  Wren's. 
The  docks  of  London  lie  closely  in  a  group — 
Wapping,  Shadwell,  Rotherhithe,  Poplar,  Lime- 
house,  Isle  of  Dogs,  Blackwall,  and  North  Wool- 
wich, and  each  possesses  its  own  fine-flavoured 
character.  You  may  know  at  once,  without  other 
evidence  than  that  afforded  by  the  sense  of  smell, 
whether  you  stand  in  London  Docks,  Surrey  Com- 
mercial Docks,  West  India  Docks,  Millwall 
Docks,  or  Victoria  and  Albert  Docks.     To  me, 


32  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

the  West  and  East  India  Docks  are  soaked  in  the 
bright  odour  and  placid  clamour  of  the  East,  with 
something  of  feminine  allure  in  the  quahty  of 
their  appeal.  Victoria  and  Albert  Docks  I  find 
gaunt  and  colourless.  Surrey  Commercial  Docks 
remind  me  of  some  coarse  merchant  from  the 
Royal  Exchange,  stupidly  vulgar  in  speech,  clothes 
and  character. 

The  East  and  West  India  Docks  I  have  treated 
elsewhere.  Of  the  others,  the  most  exciting  are 
Millwall  and  London  Docks — though  of  the  lat- 
ter I  fear  one  must  now  speak  in  the  past  tense. 
Shadwell  High  Street  and  St.  George's,  which 
border  the  London  Docks,  are  no  longer  them- 
selves. All  is  now  charged  with  gloom,  broken 
only  by  the  anaemic  lights  of  a  few  miserable  mis- 
sion-halls and  coffee-bars  for  the  use  of  Scan- 
dinavian seamen.  Awhile  back,  before  this 
monstrous  jest  of  war,  there  was  a  certain  raw 
gaiety  about  the  place  brought  thither  by  these 
same  blond  vikings;  but,  since  the  frenetic  agita- 
tions of  certain  timorous  people  against  "  all 
aliens  " — as  though  none  but  an  alien  can  be  a 
spy — these  men  are  not  now  allowed  to  land  from 
their  boats,  and  Shadwell  is  the  poorer  of  a  touch 
of   colour.      One   might   often    meet   them    and 


BACK  TO  DOCKLAND  33 

fraternize  with  them  in  the  coffee-bars  and  beer- 
shops  (there  are  few  "  pubHc-houses  "  in  these 
streets),  and  hear  their  view  of  things.  Bearded 
giants  they  were,  absurdly  out  of  the  picture  in 
these  tiny,  sawdusted  rooms,  against  the  hideous 
bedizenment  of  the  London  house  of  refreshment. 
They  would  engage  in  rich,  confused,  interminable 
conversations,  using  a  language  which,  to  the 
stranger,  sounded  like  a  medley  of  hiccoughs  and 
snorts;  and  there  would  be  vehement  arguments 
and  a  large  fanning  of  the  breeze.  In  the  upper 
rooms,  on  Saturday  evenings,  one  might  have 
singing  and  dancing  to  a  cracked  piano  and  a 
superannuated  banjo,  and  there  the  girls  of  the 
quarter  would  appear,  and  would  do  themselves 
well  on  seafarers'  hospitality. 

But  the  free-and-easy  atmosphere  is  gone.  You 
enter  any  bar  and  are  at  once  under  a  cloud. 
Suspicion  has  been  bred  in  all  these  docks  men 
by  the  cheap  Press.  The  patriotic  stevedores  re- 
gard you  as  a  disguised  alien.  The  landlord  won- 
ders whether  you  are  one  of  those  blasted 
newspaper  men  or  are  from  the  Yard.  The  visi- 
tors to  the  bars  are  in  every  case  insipid;  none 
of  the  ripe  character  that  once  lit  such  places  to 
sudden  life.    Abrupt  acquaintance  and  casual  con- 


34  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

versation  are  not  to  be  had.  The  beer  is  filthy. 
The  good  Burton  is  gone,  and  in  its  place  you 
have  a  foul  concoction  which  has  not  the  mellow- 
ing effect  of  honest  British  beer  or  the  ex- 
hilarating effect  of  the  light  continental  brews. 
Shadwell  High  Street  is  now  a  dirty  lane  of  poor 
lodging-houses,  foul  courts,  waste  tracts  of  land, 
mission  halls  exuding  a  stale  air  of  diseased  hos- 
pitality, and  those  nondescript  establishments, 
ships'  chandlers,  with  their  miscellanies  of  appar- 
ently useless  lumber,  stored  in  such  a  heap  that 
it  would  seem  impossible  to  find  any  article  im- 
mediately required.  In  short,  social  life  here  Is 
as  it  should  be,  according  to  the  unwearied  in 
war-work. 

Still,  there  are  some  adorable  morsels  of 
domestic  architecture  to  be  found  up  narrow 
alleys:  old  cottages  and  tumbling  buildings,  mel- 
lowed by  centuries  of  association  with  many 
weathers  and  with  men  and  ships  from  the  green 
and  golden  seas  that  lie  beyond  the  muddy  waters 
of  London  River;  and  these  supply  one  touch  of 
animation  to  the  prevailing  moribundity. 

Very  different  are  the  Millwall  Docks.  Little 
material  beauty  here,  but  something  much  better 
— good  company,  and  plenty  of  it.    The  docks  h*e 


BACK  TO  DOCKLAND  35 

at  the  south  of  the  Isle  of  Dogs,  amid  a  flat 
stretch  of  dreary  warehouses  and  factories,  and 
you  approach  them  by  a  long  curving  street  of 
poor  cottages  and  "  general  "  shops.  The  island 
is  a  place  of  harsh  discords,  for  Cubitt's  works 
are  established  here,  and  the  ring  of  hammers 
rises  above  the  roar  of  furnaces,  and  the  vocifer- 
ous life  of  the  canals  above  the  scream  of  the 
siren  and  the  moan  of  the  hooter,  and  the  con- 
certed voices  of  the  island  seem  to  cry  the  ac- 
cumulated agony  of  the  East  End.  Great  arc 
lights,  suspended  from  above,  when  cargoes  are 
being  unloaded  by  night,  fling  into  sudden  il- 
lumination or  shadow  the  faces  and  figures  of  the 
groups  of  workers  as  they  stagger  up  the  gang- 
ways with  their  loads,  and  lend  to  the  whole  scene 
an  air  of  theatrical  illusion.  In  the  bars  you  find 
sweaty  engineers  and  grimy  stokers.  Here  is  a 
prolific  field  of  character;  mostly  British,  though 
a  few  Lascars  may  be  found,  drinking  solitary 
drinks  or  parading  the  streets  with  their  cus- 
tomary air  of  bewilderment.  Here  are  nut-brown 
toilers  of  the  sea,  whose  complexions  suggest  that 
they  have  been  trapped  by  that  advertiser  in  the 
popular  Press  who  offers  his  toilet  wares  with  the 
oracular  pronouncement  that   "  Handsome   Men 


36  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

Are  Slightly  Sunburnt."  Here  are  men  who 
have  circled  the  seven  seas.  Here,  calm  and  taci- 
turn, is  a  man  who  knows  Pitcairn  Islanders  to 
speak  to;  who  produces  from  one  pocket  a  carved 
ivory  god,  presented  to  him  by  some  native  of 
Java,  and  from  the  other  Old  Timothy's  One- 
Horse  Snip  for  the  Big  Race. 

Under  the  meagre  daylight  and  the  opulent 
shadows  of  these  docks  you  may  drink  beer  and 
listen  to  casual  chit-chat  that  carries  you  round 
the  world  and  into  magical  hidden  places,  and 
brings  you  back  with  a  jerk  to  the  Isle  of  Dogs. 

"  Yerce.  Two  bob  a  pound  the  'Ome  an' 
Colonial  was  arstin'  the  missus  for  the  stuff.  I 
soon  went  round  an'  told  'em  where  they  could 
put  it.  Well,  'si  was  sayin',  after  we  left  Ran- 
goon, we " 

The  land  in  this  district  consists,  for  the  most 
part,  of  oozing  marsh,  so  that,  when  a  gale  sweeps 
from  the  mouth  of  the  river,  it  reaches  the  island 
with  unexpended  force.  Then  the  sky  seems  to 
scream  in  harmony  with  the  rattling  windows. 
Saloon  signs  swing  grotesquely.  The  river  as- 
sumes a  steely  hue,  heaving  and  rushing,  sucking 
against  staples,  wharves  and  barges,  and  rising  in 
ineffectual  splashes  against  the  gates  of  the  docks, 


BACK  TO  DOCKLAND  37 

until  you  seek  the  public  bar  of  the  "  Dog  and 
Thunderstorm  "  as  a  sanctuary.  There,  amid  the 
babble  of  pewter  and  glass  and  the  punctuation 
of  the  cash  register,  you  forget  any  London  gale 
in  listening  to  stories  of  typhoons,  cyclones,  and 
other  freaks  of  the  elements  common  to  the 
Pacific  and  the  meeting  of  the  waters  round  the 
Horn. 

Many  hours  have  I  squandered  on  the  ridicu- 
lous bridge  of  the  Isle  of  Dogs,  in  sunlight  or  twi- 
light, grey  mist  or  velvet  darkness,  building  my 
dreams  about  the  boats  as  they  dropped  down- 
stream to  the  oceans  of  the  world  and  their  ports 
with  honey-syllabled  names — Swatow,  Rangoon, 
Manila,  Mozambique,  Amoy — returning  in  nor- 
mal times,  with  fantastic  cargoes  of  cornelian 
and  jade,  malachite  and  onyx,  fine  shapes  of  ivory 
and  coral,  sharp  spices  of  betel-nut  and  bhang, 
and  a  secret  tin  or  two  of  li-un — perhaps  not  re- 
turning at  all.  There  I  would  stand,  giving  to 
each  ship  some  name  and  destination  born  of  my 
own  fancy,  and  endowing  it  with  a  marvellous 
meed  of  adventure. 

It  is  an  exciting  experience  for  the  landsman 
Cockney,  strolling  the  streets  about  the  docks,  to 
rub  shoulders  with  other  little  Cockneys,  in  blue 


38  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

serge  and  cotton  scarves,  who  have  accepted  the 
non-committal  invitation  offered  by  the  funnel 
and  the  rigging  over  the  walls  of  Limehouse 
Basin.  One  remembers  the  story  of  the  pale 
curate  at  the  church  concert,  at  which  one  of  the 
entertainers  had  sung  a  setting  of  Kipling's 
''  Rolling  Down  to  Rio."  "  Ah,  God!  "  he  said, 
wringing  his  thin  hands,  "  that's  what  I  often  feel 
like.  .  .  .  Rolling  down  to  Rio."  And  in  these 
streets  one  meets  insignificant  little  men  who  have 
done  it;  who  have  rolled  down  to  Rio  and  gone 
back  to  Mandalay,  and  seen  the  dawn  come  up 
like  thunder  outer  China  'crost  the  Bay 

And  I  am  proud  to  have  nodding  acquaintance 
with  them.  I  am  glad  they  have  drunk  beer  with 
me.  I  am  glad  I  have  clicked  the  chopsticks  in 
Limehouse  Causeway  with  the  yellow  boys  who 
can  talk  of  Canton  and  Siam  and  North  Borneo 
and  San  Francisco.  I  am  glad  I  have  salaamed 
noble  men  of  India  at  the  Asiatics'  Home,  and 
heard  their  stories  of  odourous  villages  in  the  hills 
and  of  the  seas  about  India,  and  of  strange  islands 
which  mere  Cockneys  pick  out  on  the  map  with  an 
uncertain  forefinger — Andamans,  Nicobars,  Solo- 
mons, and  so  forth.  I  am  glad  from  having  met 
men  who  know  Java  as  I  know  London;  who 


BACK  TO  DOCKLAND  39 

know  the  best  places  in  Tokio  for  tea  and  the 
most  picturesque  spots  in  Formosa;  who  can 
direct  me  to  a  good  hotel  in  Singapore,  should  I 
ever  go  there,  and  who  know  where  Irish  whisky- 
can  be  bought  in  Sarawak.  Why  study  guide- 
books, or  consult  with  the  omniscient  Mr.  Cook, 
when  you  may  find  about  the  great  ornamental 
gates  of  the  docks  of  London  natives  of  all 
corners  of  the  world  who  can  provide  you  with 
a  hundred  exclusive  tips  which  will  make  smooth 
the  traveller's  way  over  every  obstacle  or  un- 
toward incident?  Indeed,  why  travel  at  all, 
when  you  may  travel  by  proxy;  when,  by  hanging 
round  the  docks  of  London,  you  may  travel,  on 
the  lips  of  these  men,  through  jungle,  ocean, 
white  town,  palm  grove,  desert  island,  and  suf- 
fer all  the  sharp  sensations  of  standing  silent 
upon  a  peak  in  Darien,  the  while  you  are  taking 
heartening  draughts  of  mild  and  bitter  in  the 
saloon  bar  of  the  "  Star  of  the  East"? 


CHINATOWN  REVISITED 

*'  Chinatown,  my  Chinatown,  where  the  lights 
are  low  " — a  fragment  of  a  music-hall  song  in 
praise  of  Chinatown  which  sticks  ironically  in  my 
memory.  The  fact  that  the  lights  are  low  applies 
at  the  time  of  writing  to  the  whole  of  London; 
and  as  for  the  word  "  Chinatown,"  which  once 
carried  a  perfume  of  delight,  it  is  now  empty  of 
meaning  save  as  indicating  a  district  of  London 
where  Chinamen  live.  To-day  Limehouse  is 
without  salt  or  savour;  flat  and  unprofitable;  and 
of  all  that  it  once  held  of  colour  and  mystery  and 
the  macabre,  one  must  write  in  the  past  tense. 
The  missionaries  and  the  Defence  of  the  Realm 
Act  have  together  stripped  it  of  all  that  furtive 
adventure  that  formerly  held  such  lure  for  the 
Westerner. 

It  was  in  19 17  that  I  returned  to  it,  after  an 
absence  of  some  years.  In  that  year  I  received  an 
invitation  that  is  rightly  accepted  as  a  compli- 
ment: I  was  asked  by  Alvin  Langdon  Coburn  to 
meet  him  at  his  studio,  and  let  him  make  from 

40 


CHINATOWN  REVISITED  41 

my  face  one  of  those  ecstatic  muddles  of  grey  and 
brown  that  have  won  for  him  the  world's  acknowl- 
edgment as  the  first  artist  of  the  camera.     Our 
meeting    discovered    a    mutual    enthusiasm    for 
Limehouse,     and     we     arranged     an     excursion. 
There,  we  said  to  ourselves,  we  shall  find  yet  a 
taste  of  the  pleasant  things  that  the  world  has 
forgotten:   soft   movement,   solitude,    little   cour- 
tesies, as  well  as  wonderful  things  to  buy.    There 
we  shall  find  sharp-flavoured  things  to  eat  and 
drink,  and  josses  and  chaste  carvings,  and  sharp 
knives.     Oh,   and  the   tea,   too — the   little  two- 
ounce    packets    of    suey-sen    at    sevenpence,    that 
clothe  the  hour  of  five  o'clock  with  delicate  scents 
and  dreams. 

But  the  suey-sen  was  gone,  done  to  death  by 
the  tea-rationing  order.  Gone,  too,  was  the  bland 
iniquity  of  the  place.  Our  saunter  through  Penny- 
fields  and  the  Causeway  was  a  succession  of  dis- 
illusions. The  spirit  of  the  commercial  and 
controlled  West  breathed  on  us  from  every  side. 
All  the  dusky  delicacies  were  suppressed.  Dora 
had  stepped  in  and  khyboshed  the  little  haunts 
that  once  invited  to  curious  amusement.  Opium, 
li-un,  and  other  essences  of  the  white  poppy,  se- 
cretly hoarded,   were   fetching  £30  per  pound. 


42  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

The  hop-hoads  had  got  it  in  the  neck,  and  the 
odour  of  gin-seng  floated  seldom  upon  the  air. 
The  old  tong  feuds  had  been  suppressed  by  stern 
policing,  and  Thames  Police  Court  had  become 
almost  as  suave  and  seemly  as  Rumpelmayer's. 
Even  that  joyous  festival,  the  Feast  of  the 
Lanterns,  kept  at  the  Chinese  New  Year,  had 
fallen  out  of  the  calendar.  The  Asiatic  seamen 
had  been  made  good  by  an  Order  in  Council.  All 
for  the  best,  no  doubt;  yet  how  one  missed  the 
bizarre  flame  and  salt  of  the  old  Quarter. 

We  found  Pennyfields  and  the  Causeway  un- 
comfortably crowded,  for  the  outward  mail  sail- 
ings were  reduced,  and  the  men  who  landed  in 
the  early  days  had  been  unable  to  get  away.  So 
the  streets  and  lodging-houses  were  thronged 
with  Arabs,  Malays,  Hindoos,  South  Sea  Island- 
ers, and  East  Africans;  and  the  Asiatics'  Home 
for  Destitute  Orientals  was  having  the  time  of 
its  life.  Every  cubicle  in  the  hotel  was  engaged, 
and  many  wanderers  were  sleeping  where  they 
could.  Those  with  money  paid  for  their  accom- 
modation; for  the  others,  a  small  grant  from  the 
India  Office  secured  them  board  and  bed  until 
such  time  as  proper  arranj^cments  could  be  made. 
The  kitchens  were  working  overtime,   for  each 


CHINATOWN  REVISITED  43 

race  or  creed  has  its  own  inexorable  laws  in  the 
matter  of  food.  Some  eat  this  and  some  eat  that, 
and  others  will  eat  anything — save  pork — pro- 
vided that  prayers  are  spoken  over  it  by  an  ap- 
pointed priest. 

At  half-past  nine  an  occasional  tipsy  Malay 
might  be  seen  about  the  streets,  but  the  old  riots 
and  melees  were  things  of  the  past.  In  the  little 
public-house  at  the  corner  of  Pennyfields  we  found 
the  usual  crowd  of  Chinks  and  white  girls,  and  the 
electric  piano  was  gurgling  its  old  sorry  melodies, 
and  beer  and  whisky  were  flowing;  but  the  whole 
thing  was  very  decorous  and  war-timish. 

We  did,  however,  find  one  splash  of  colour.  A 
new  and  very  gaudy  restaurant  had  lately  been 
opened  in  a  narrow  by-street,  and  here  we  took  a 
meal  of  noodle,  chow-chow  and  awabi,  and  some 
tea  that  was  a  mocking  echo  of  the  old  suey-sen. 
The  room  was  crowded  with  yellow  boys  and  a 
few  white  girls.  Suddenly,  from  a  corner  table, 
occupied  by  two  of  the  ladies,  came  a  sharp  stir. 
A  few  heated  words  rattled  on  the  air,  and  then 
one  rose,  caught  the  other  a  resounding  biff  in  the 
neck,  and  screamed  at  her: — 

"  You  dare  say  I'm  not  respectable !  I  am 
respectable.     I  come  from  Manchester." 


44  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

This  evidence  the  assaulted  one  refused  to  re- 
gard as  final.  She  rose,  reached  over  the  table, 
and  clawed  madly  at  her  opponent's  face  and 
clothes.  Then  they  broke  from  the  table,  and 
fought,  and  fell,  and  screamed,  and  dehvered  the 
hideous  animal  noises  made  by  those  who  see  red. 
At  once  the  place  boiled.  I've  never  been  in  a 
Chinese  rebellion,  but  if  the  clamour  and  the 
antics  of  the  twenty  or  so  yellow  boys  in  that  cafe 
be  taken  as  a  faint  record  of  such  an  affair,  it 
is  a  good  thing  for  the  sensitive  to  be  out  of. 
To  the  corner  dashed  waiters  and  some  custom- 
ers, and  there  they  rolled  one  another  to  the  floor 
in  their  efforts  to  separate  the  girls,  while  others 
stood  about  and  screamed  advice  in  the  various 
dialects  of  the  Celestial  Empire.  At  last  the 
girls  were  torn  apart,  and  struggled  insanely  in 
half  a  dozen  grips  as  they  hurled  inspired 
thoughts  at  one  another,  or  returned  to  the  old 
chorus  of  "  Dirty  prostitute."  "  I  ain't  a  prosti- 
tute. I  come  from  Manchester.  Lemme 
gettater." 

And  with  a  final  wrench  the  respectable  one 
did  get  at  her.  She  broke  away,  turned  to  a 
table,  and  with  three  swift  gestures  flung  cup, 
saucer  and  sauce-boat  into  the  face  of  her  tra- 


CHINATOWN  REVISITED  45 

ducer.  That  finished  it.  The  proprietor  had 
stood  aloof  while  the  girls  tore  each  other's  faces 
and  bit  at  uncovered  breasts.  But  the  sight  of  his 
broken  crockery  acted  as  a  remover  of  gravity. 
He  dashed  down  the  steps,  pushed  aside  assist- 
ants and  advisers,  grabbed  the  nearest  girl — the 
respectable  one — round  the  waist,  wrestled  her  to 
the  top  of  the  marble  stairs  that  lead  from  the 
door  to  the  upper  restaurant,  and  then,  with  a 
sharp  knee-kick,  sent  her  headlong  to  the  bottom, 
where  she  lay  quiet. 

Whereupon  her  opponent  crashed  across  a 
table  in  hysterics,  kicking,  moaning,  laughing  and 
sobbing:  "  You've  killed  'er — yeh  beast.  You've 
killed  'er.    She's  my  pal.    Oo.  Oo.  Oooooowh  !  " 

This  lasted  about  a  minute.  Then,  suddenly, 
she  arose,  pulled  herself  together,  ran  madly 
down  the  stairs,  picked  up  her  pal,  and  staggered 
with  her  to  the  street.  At  once,  without  a  word 
of  comment,  the  company  returned  placidly  to 
its  eating  and  drinking;  and  this  affair — an  event 
in  the  otherwise  dull  life  of  Limehouse — was 
over. 

Years  ago,  such  affairs  were  of  daily  occur- 
rence, and  the  West  India  Dock  Road  became 
a  legend  to  frighten  children  with  at  night.     But 


46  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

the  times  change.  Chinatown  is  a  back  number, 
and  there  now  remains  no  corner  to  which  one 
may  take  the  curious  visitor  thirsting  for  exotic 
excitement — unless  it  be  the  wilds  of  Tottenham. 
The  Chinatown  of  New  York,  too,  has  become 
respectable.  The  founder  of  that  colony,  Old 
Nick,  died  recently,  in  miserable  circumstances, 
after  having  acquired  thousands  of  dollars  by  his 
enterprise.  From  the  high  estate  of  Founder  of 
the  Chinatown  he  dropped  to  the  position  of  pan- 
handler, swinging  on  the  ears  of  his  compatriots. 
About  forty  years  ago,  when  Mott  Street,  Pell 
Street,  and  Doyers  Street  were  the  territory  of 
the  Whyos,  the  Bowery  boys  and  the  Dead  Rab- 
bits, Old  Nick  crept  stealthily  into  a  small  corner. 
He  started  a  cigar-store  in  Mott  Street,  making 
his  own  cigars.  He  was  honest,  thrifty,  and  pos- 
sessed a  lust  for  work.  The  cigar-store  pros- 
pered, and  soon,  feeling  lonely,  as  the  only  Chink 
among  so  many  white  boys,  he  passed  the  word 
to  his  countrymen  about  the  big  spenders  of  the 
district.  On  his  advice,  they  closed  their  laun- 
dries and  came  to  live  alongside,  to  get  their  pick- 
ings from  the  dollars  that  were  flying  about. 
Chinatown  was  started,  and  rapidly  developed, 
and  its  atmosphere  was  sedulously  "  arranged  " 


CHINATOWN  REVISITED  47 

for  the  benefit  of  conducted  tourists  from  up- 
town, and  the  tables  rattled  with  the  dice  and 
fluttered  with  the  cards.  This  success  was  the 
beginning  of  Old  Nick's  failure.  At  the  tables  he 
lost  all:  his  capital,  his  store,  his  home,  and  his 
proud  position.  For  a  time  he  managed  to  sur- 
vive in  fair  circumstances;  but  soon  the  hatchet 
men  became  too  numerous,  and  their  tong  feuds 
too  deadly,  and  their  gambling  tricks  too  notori- 
ous. Police  raids  and  the  firm  hand  of  the  higher 
Chinese  merchants  put  a  stop  to  the  prosperity  of 
Chinatown,  and  soon  it  fell  away  to  nothing,  and 
Old  Nick  passed  his  last  days  on  the  sporadic 
charity  of  a  white  woman  whom  he  had  in  hap- 
pier days  befriended. 

And  to-day  Pell  Street  and  Mott  Street  are  as 
quiet  and  virtuous  as  Pennyfields  and  the  Cause- 
way. Coburn  and  I  left  the  old  waterside  streets 
with  feelings  of  dismay,  tasting  ashes  in  the 
mouth.  We  tried  to  draw  from  an  old  store- 
keeper, a  topside  good-fella  chap,  some  expres- 
sion of  his  own  attitude  to  present  conditions,  but 
with  his  usual  impassivity  he  passed  it  over.  How 
could  this  utterly  debased  and  miserable  one  who 
dares  to  stand  before  noble  and  refined  ones  from 
Office  of  Printed  Leaves,  who  have  honoured  his 


48  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

totally  inadequate  establishment  with  symmetrical 
presences,  presume  to  offer  to  exalted  intelligences 
utterly  insignificant  thoughts  that  find  lodging  in 
despicable  breast? 

Clearly  he  was  handing  us  the  lemon,  so  we 
took  it,  and  departed  for  the  more  reckless  joys 
of  Hammersmith,  where  Coburn  has  his  home. 
On  the  journey  back  I  remembered  the  drabness 
we  had  just  left,  and  then  I  remembered  Lime- 
house  as  it  was — a  pool  of  Eastern  filth  and 
metropolitan  squalor;  a  place  where  unhappy 
Lascars,  discharged  from  ships  they  were  only 
too  glad  to  leave,  were  at  once  the  prey  of  ras- 
cally lodging-house  keepers,  mostly  English,  who 
fleeced  them  over  the  fan-tan  tables  and  then 
slung  them  to  the  dark  alleys  of  the  docks.  A 
wicked  place;  yes,  but  colourful. 

Listen  to  the  following:  two  extracts  from  an 
East  End  paper  of  thirty  years  back: — 

Thames  Police  Court. 

John  Lyons,  who  keeps  a  common  lodgin<2;-house,  which  he 
has  neglected  to  register,  appeared  before  Mr.  Ingram  in 
answer  to  a  summons  taken  out  by  Inspector  Price.  J.  Kirby, 
53A,  inspector  of  common  lodging-houses,  stated  that  on  Satur- 
day ni'^ht  last  he  visited  defendant's  house,  which  was  in  a 
most  filthv  and  dilapidated  condition.  In  the  first  floor  he 
found  a  Chinaman  sleeping  in  a  cupboard  or  small  closet,  filled 
with  cobwebs.    The  wretched  creature  was  without  a  shirt,  and 


CHINATOWN  REVISITED  49 

was  covered  with  a  few  rags.  The  Chinaman  was  appar- 
ently in  a  dying  state,  and  has  since  expired.  An  inquest  was 
held  on  his  remains,  and  it  was  proved  he  died  of  fever,  and 
had  been  most  grossly  neglected.  The  room  in  which  the 
Chinaman  lay  was  without  bedding  or  furniture.  In  the  second 
room  he  found  Aby  Callighan,  an  Irishwoman,  who  said  she 
paid  IS.  6d.  a  week  rent.  In  the  third  room  was  Abdallah, 
a  Lascar,  who  said  he  paid  3s.  per  week,  and  a  Chinaman 
squatting  on  a  chair  smoking.  In  the  fourth  room  was  Dong 
Yoke,  a  Chinaman,  who  said  he  paid  2s.  6d.  per  week  for  the 
privilege  of  sleeping  on  the  bare  boards;  two  Lascars  on  bed- 
steads smoking  opium,  and  the  dead  body  of  a  Lascar  lying  on 
the  floor,  and  covered  with  an  old  rug.  In  the  fifth  room  was 
an  Asiatic  seaman,  named  Peru,  who  said  he  paid  3s.  per  week, 
and  eleven  other  Lascars,  six  of  whom  were  sleeping  on  bed- 
steads, three  on  the  floor,  and  two  on  chairs.  If  the  house  were 
registered,  only  four  persons  would  be  allowed  in  the  room. 
The  eflluvium,  caused  by  smoking  opium  and  the  over-crowded 
state  of  the  room,  was  most  nauseous  and  intolerable.  In  the 
kitchen,  which  was  very  damp,  he  found  Sedgoo,  who  said  he 
had  to  pay  2s.  a  week,  and  eight  Chinamen  huddled  together. 
The  stench  here  was  very  bad.  If  the  house  were  registered, 
no  one  would  have  been  allowed  to  inhabit  the  kitchen  at  all. 
He  should  say  the  house  was  quite  unfit  for  a  human  habitation. 
The  floors  of  the  rooms,  the  stairs  and  passages  were  in  a  filthy 
and  dilapidated  condition,  covered  with  slime,  dirt,  and  all 
kinds  of  odious  substances. 

The  men  had  been  hung  up  with  weights  tied  to  their  feet; 
flogged  with  a  rope;  pork,  the  horror  of  the  Mohammedan, 
served  out  to  them  to  eat,  and  the  insult  carried  further  by 
violently  ramming  the  tail  of  a  pig  into  their  mouths  and 
twisting  the  entrails  of  the  pig  round  their  necks;  they  were 
forced  up  aloft  at  the  point  of  the  bayonet,  and  a  shirt  all 
gory  with  Lascar  blood  was  exhibited  on  the  trial,  and  all  this 
proved  in  evidence.  One  man  leaped  overboard  to  escape  his 
tormentor;  a  boat  was  about  to  be  lowered  to  save  the  drown- 
ing man,  but  it  was  prohibited,  and  he  was  left  to  perish.  The 
captain    escaped    out    of    the    country,    forfeiting    his    bail    and 


50  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

abandoning  his  ship,  leaving  his  chief  officer  to  be  brought  to 
trial  and  to  undergo  punishment  for  his  share  of  this  cruel 
transaction. 

In  those  days  you  might  stand  in  West  India 
Dock  Road,  on  a  June  evening,  in  a  dusk  of  blue 
and  silver,  the  air  heavy  with  the  reek  of  betel 
nut,  chandu  and  fried  fish;  the  cottages  stewing 
themselves  in  their  viscid  heat.  Against  the  sky- 
line rose  Limehouse  Church,  one  of  the  architec- 
tural beauties  of  London.  Yellow  men  and  brown 
ambled  about  you,  and  a  melancholy  guitar  tinkled 
a  melody  of  lost  years.  Then,  were  colour  and 
movement;  the  whisper  of  slippered  feet;  the 
adventurous  uncertainty  of  shadow;  heavy  mist, 
which  never  lifts  from  Poplar  and  Limehouse; 
strange  voices  creeping  from  nowhere;  and  occa- 
sionally the  rasp  of  a  gramophone  delivering  rec- 
ords of  interminable  Chinese  dramas.  The  soul 
of  the  Orient  wove  its  spell  about  you,  until,  into 
this  evanescent  atmosphere,  came  a  Salvation 
Army  chorus  bawling  a  lot  of  emphatic  stuff  about 
glory  and  blood,  or  an  organ  with  "  It  ain't  all 
lavender!  "  and  at  once  the  clamour  and  reek  of 
the  place  caught  you. 

Thirty  years  ago — that  was  its  time  of  roses. 
Then,  indeed,  things  did  happen :  things  so  strong 
that  the  perfume  of  them  lingers  to  this  day,  and 


CHINATOWN  REVISITED  51 

one  can,  remembering  them,  sometimes  sym- 
pathize with  those  who  say  "  LiMEHOUSE "  in 
tones  of  terror.  One  of  my  earliest  memories  is 
of  the  West  India  Dock  Road  on  a  wet  November 
afternoon.  A  fight  was  on  between  a  Chink  and 
a  Malay.  The  Chink  used  a  knife  in  an  upward 
direction,  forcefully.  The  Malay  got  the  Chink 
down,  and  jumped  with  heavy  boots  on  the  bleed- 
ing yellow  face. 

Some  time  ago,  when  my  ways  were  cast  in 
that  district,  the  boys  would  loaf  at  a  kind  of 
semi-private  music-hall,  attached  uo  a  public-house, 
where  one  of  the  Westernized  Chinks,  a  San  Sam 
Phung,  led  the  band,  and  freely  admitted  all 
friends  who  bought  him  drinks.  Every  night  he 
climbed  to  his  chair,  and  his  yellow  face  rose  like 
a  November  sun  over  the  orchestra-rail.  When 
the  conductor's  tap  turned  on  the  flow  of  the 
dozen  instruments,  which  blared  rag-tag  music, 
we  shifted  to  the  babbling  bar  and  tried  to  be 
amused  by  the  show.  It  was  the  dustiest  thing 
in  entertainment  that  you  can  imagine.  To  this 
day  the  hall  stinks  of  snarling  song.  Dusty  jokes 
we  had,  dusty  music,  dusty  dresses,  dusty  girls  to 
wear  them,  or  take  them  off;  and  only  the  flogging 
of  cheap  whisky  to  carry  us  through  the  evening. 


52  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

Solemn  smokes  of  cut  plug  and  indifferent  cigar 
swirled  in  a  haze  of  lilac,  and  over  the  opiate  air 
San's  fiddle  would  wail,  surging  up  to  the  balcony's 
rim  and  the  cloud  of  corpse  faces  that  swam  above 
it.  More  and  more  mephitic  the  air  would  grow, 
and  noisier  would  become  voice  and  foot  and 
glass;  until,  with  a  burst  of  lights,  and  the  roar 
of  the  chord-off  from  the  band,  the  end  would 
come,  and  we  would  tumble  out  into  the  great 
road  where  were  the  winking  river,  and  keen  air 
and  sanity. 

Later,  the  boys  would  shuffle  along  with  San 
Sam  Phung  to  his  lodging  over  a  waterside  wine- 
shop, crossing  the  crazy  bridge  into  the  Isle  of 
Dogs.  Often,  passing  at  midnight,  you  might 
have  heard  his  heart-song  trickling  from  an  open 
window.  He  cared  only  for  the  modern,  Italianate 
stuff,  and  would  play  it  for  hours  at  a  time. 
Seated  in  the  orchestra,  in  his  second-hand  dress- 
suit  and  well-oiled  hair,  he  looked  about  as  pic- 
turesque as  a  Bayswater  boarding-house.  But  you 
should  have  seen  him  afterwards,  during  the  day, 
in  his  one-room  establishment,  radiant  in  spangled 
dressing-gown  and  tempestuous  hair,  a  cigarette 
at  his  lips,  his  fiddle  at  his  chin.  It  was  worth 
sitting  up  late  for.     Then  his  face  would  shine, 


CHINATOWN  REVISITED  53 

if  ever  a  Chink's  can,  and  his  bow  would  tear  the 
soul  from  the  fiddle  in  a  fury  of  lyricism. 

Half  his  room  was  filled  with  a  stove,  which 
thrust  a  long  neck  of  piping  ten  feet  in  the  wrong 
direction,  and  then  swerved  impulsively  to  the 
window.  In  the  corner  was  a  joss.  The  rest  of 
the  room  was  littered  with  fiddles  and  music.  Over 
the  stove  hung  a  gaudy  view  of  Amoy.  He  never 
tired  of  talking  of  Amoy,  his  home.  He  longed 
to  get  back  to  it — to  flowers,  blue  waters,  white 
towns.  He  lived  only  for  the  moment  when  he 
might  tuck  his  fiddle-case  under  his  arm  and  return 
to  Amoy,  home  and  beauty.  Once  started  on  the 
tawdry  ribaldry  which  he  had  to  play  at  the  hall, 
his  arm  and  fingers  following  mechanically  the 
sheet  before  him,  he  would  set  his  fancies  free, 
and,  like  a  flock  of  rose-winged  birds,  they  took 
flight  to  Amoy.  Music,  for  him,  was  just  melody 
— the  graceful  surface  of  things;  in  a  word  Amoy. 
Often  he  confessed  to  a  terrible  fear  that  he 
would  grow  old  and  die  among  our  swart  streets 
ere  he  could  save  enough  to  return.  And  he  did. 
Full  of  the  poppy  one  dark  night,  he  stepped  over 
the  edge  of  a  wharf  at  Millwall.  Then,  at  the 
inquiry,  it  was  discovered  that  his  nostalgia  for 
Amoy  was  pure  fake.     He  had  never  been  there. 


54  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

He  was  born  on  a  boat  that  crawled  up-river  one 
foggy  morning,  and  had  never  for  a  day  gone 
out  of  London. 

There  were  many  other  delightful  creatures  of 
Limehouse  whose  names  lie  persistently  on  the 
memory.  There  was  Afong,  a  chimpanzee  who 
ran  a  pen-yen  joint.  There  was  Chinese  Emma, 
in  whose  establishment  one  could  go  "  sleigh- 
riding."  There  was  Shaik  Boxhoo,  a  gentleman 
who  did  unpleasant  things,  and  finally  got  religion 
and  other  advantages  over  his  less  wily  brothers, 
who  got  only  the  jug.  Faults  they  had  in  plenty, 
these  throwbacks,  but  their  faults  were  original. 
Every  one  of  them  was  a  bit  of  sharp-flavoured 
character,  individual  and  distinct. 

In  those  days  there  was  a  waste  patch  of  wan 
grass,  called  The  Gardens,  near  the  Quarter,  and 
something  like  a  band  performed  there  once  a 
week.  O  Carnival,  Carnival!  There  the  local 
crowd  would  go,  and  there,  to  the  music  of  dear 
Verdi,  light  feet  would  clatter  about  the  asphalt 
walk,  and  there  would  happen  what  happens  every 
Sunday  night  in  those  parts  of  London  where  are 
parks,  promenades,  bandstands  and  monkeys'  pa- 
rades. In  the  hot  spangled  dusk,  the  groups  of 
girls,  brave  with  best  frocks  and  daring  ribbons, 


CHINATOWN  REVISITED  55 

would  fling  their  love  and  their  laughter  to  all 
who  would  have  them.  Through  the  plaintive 
music — poor  Verdi !  how  like  a  wheezy  music-box 
his  crinoline  melodies  sounded,  even  then! — 
would  swim  little  ripples  of  laughter  when  the 
girls  were  caressing  or  being  caressed;  and 
always  the  lisp  of  feet  and  the  whisk  of  darling 
frocks  kissing  little  black  shoes. 

Near  by  was  the  old  "  Royal  Sovereign,"  which 
had  a  skittle-alley.  There  would  gather  the  lousy 
Lascars,  and  there  they  would  roll,  bowl  or  pitch. 
Then  they  wouldswill.  Later,  they  wouldroll,  bowl 
or  pitch,  with  a  skinful  of  gin,  through  the  reel- 
ing streets  to  whichever  boat  might  claim  them. 

The  black  Lascars,  unlike  their  yellow  mates, 
are  mostly  disagreeable  people.  There  was,  in 
those  days,  but  one  of  them  who  even  approached 
affability.  He  was  something  of  a  Limehouse 
Wonder,  for,  in  a  sudden  fight  over  spilt  beer,  he 
showed  amazing  aptitude  not  only  with  his  fists, 
but  also  in  ringcraft.  Chuck  Lightfoot,  a  local 
sport,  happened  to  see  him,  and  took  him  in  hand, 
and  for  some  years  he  stayed  in  Shadwell,  putting 
one  after  another  of  the  local  lads  to  sleep.  He 
finished  his  ring  career  in  a  dockside  saloon  by 
knocking  out  an  offending  white  man  who  had 


56^  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

chipped  him  about  his  colour.  It  was  a  foul  blow, 
and  the  man  died.  Pennyfields  Polly  got  twelve 
months,  and  when  he  came  out  he  started  on  the 
poppy  and  the  snow,  for  he  was  not  allowed  to 
fight  again,  and  hfe  held  nothing  else  for  him.  His 
friends  tried  to  dissuade  him,  on  the  ground  that 
he  was  ruining  his  health — a  sensible  argument  to 
put  to  a  man  who  had  no  interest  in  life;  they 
might  as  well  have  told  an  Arctic  explorer,  who 
had  lost  the  trail,  that  his  tie  was  creeping  up  the 
back,  of  his  neck. 

It  is  curious  how  the  boys  cling  to  you  after 
a  brief  interchange  of  hospitalities.  You  drop 
into  a  beer-shack  one  evening,  and  you  are  sure 
to  find  a  friend.  One  makes  so  easily  in  these 
parts  a  connection,  salutations,  fugitive  intimacy. 
You  are  suddenly  saluted,  it  may  be  by  that  good 
old  friend,  Mr.  Lo,  the  poor  Indian,  or  John  Sam 
Ling  Lee.  Vaguely  you  recall  the  name.  Yes; 
you  stood  him  a  drink,  some  ten  years  ago.  Where 
has  he  been?  Oh,  he  found  a  boat  .  .  .  went 
round  the  Horn  .  .  .  stranded  at  Lima  .  .  . 
been  in  Cuba  some  time  .  .  .  got  to  Swatow  later 
.  .  .  might  stay  in  London  .  .  .  might  get  a 
boat  on  Saturday, 

But  these   casual  encounters   are  now  hardly 


CHINATOWN  REVISITED  57 

to  be  had.  So  many  boys,  so  many  places  have 
disappeared.  Blue  Gate  Fields,  scene  of  many 
an  Asiatic  demonism,  is  gone.  The  "  Royal  Sov- 
ereign " — the  old  "  Royal  Sovereign  " — is  gone, 
and  the  Home  for  Asiatics  reigns  in  its  stead. 
The  hop-shacks  about  the  Poplar  arches  and  the 
closed  courtyards  and  their  one-story  cottages  are 
no  more.  To-day — as  I  have  said  three  times 
already;  stop  me  if  I  say  it  again — the  glamor- 
ous shame  of  Chinatown  has  departed.  Nothing 
remains  save  tradition,  which  now  and  then  is 
fanned  into  life  by  such  a  case  as  that  of  the 
drugged  actress.  Yet  you  may  still  find  people 
who  journey  fearfully  to  Limehouse,  and  spend 
money  in  its  shops  and  restaurants,  and  suffer 
their  self-manufactured  excitements  while  sojourn- 
ing in  its  somnolent  streets  among  the  respectable 
sons  of  Canton.  The  boys  will  not  thank  me  for 
robbing  them  of  the  soft  marks  who  pay  twenty 
shiUings  for  a  jade  bangle,  of  the  kind  sold  in  a 
sixpenny-halfpenny  bazaar;  so,  anticipating  their 
celestial  disapproval,  this  miserable  prostrates 
himself  and  remains  bowed  for  their  gracious 
pardon,  and  begs  to  be  permitted  to  say  that  the 
entirely  inadequate  benedictions  of  this  one  will 
be  upon  them  until  the  waning  of  the  last  moon. 


SOHO  CARRIES  ON 

SoHO !    Soho ! 

Joyous  syllables,  in  early  times  expressive  of  the 
delights  of  the  chase,  and  even  to-day  carrying  an 
echo  of  nights  of  festivity,  though  an  echo  only. 
How  many  thousand  of  provincials,  seeing  Lon- 
don, have  been  drawn  to  those  odourous  byways 
that  thrust  themselves  so  briskly  through  the 
staid  pleasure-land  of  the  West  End — Greek 
Street,  Frith  Street,  Dean  Street,  Old  Compton 
Street:  a  series  of  interjections  breaking  a  dull 
paragraph — where  they  might  catch  the  true 
Latin  temper  and  bear  away  to  the  smoking- 
rooms  of  country  Conservative  clubs  fulsome  tales 
that  have  made  Soho  already  a  legend.  Indeed, 
I  know  one  cautious  lad  from  Yorkshire,  whose 
creed  is  that  You  Never  Know  and  You  Can't  Be 
Too  Careful,  who  always  furnishes  himself  with 
a  loaded  revolver  when  dining  with  a  town  friend 
in  Soho.  T  am  not  one  to  look  sourly  upon  the 
simple  pleasures  of  the  poor;  I  do  not  begrudge 
him  his  concocted  dish  of  thrills.     I  only  mention 

58 


SOHO  CARRIES  ON  59 

this  trick  of  his  because  it  proves  again  the 
strange  resurrective  powers  of  an  oft-buried  lie. 
You  may  sweep,  you  may  garnish  Soho  if  you  will; 
but  the  scent  of  adventure  will  hang  round  it  still. 
But  to-day  the  scent  is  very  faint.  The  streets 
that  once  rang  with  laughter  and  prodigal  talk, 
are  in  A.d.  19 17  charged  with  gloom;  their  gentle 
noise  is  pitched  in  the  minor  key.  These  morsels 
of  the  South,  shovelled  into  the  swart  melanchol- 
ies of  central  London,  have  lost  their  happy 
summer  tone.  Charing  Cross  Road  was  always 
a  streak  of  misery,  but,  on  the  most  leaden  day, 
its  side  streets  gave  an  impression  of  light.  Lord 
knows  whence  came  the  light.  Not  from  the 
skies.  Perhaps  from  the  indolently  vivacious 
loungers;  perhaps  from  the  flower-boxes  on  the 
window-sills,  or  the  variegated  shops  bowered 
with  pendant  polonies,  in  rainbow  wrappings  of 
tinfoil,  and  flasks  of  Chianti.  One  always  walked 
down  Old  Compton  Street  with  a  lilt,  as  to  some 
carnival  tune.  Nothing  mattered.  There  were 
macaroni  and  spaghetti  to  eat,  and  Chianti  to 
drink;  dishes  of  ravioli;  cigars  at  a  halfpenny  a 
time  and  cigarettes  at  six  a  penny;  copies  of  friv- 
olous comic-papers;  and  delicate  glasses  of  lire, 
a  liqueur  that  carried  you  at  the  first  sip  to  the 


6o  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

green-hued  Mediterranean.  The  very  smell  of 
the  place  was  the  smell  of  those  lovable  little 
towns  of  the  Midi. 

But  all  is  now  changed.  Gone  are  the  shilling 
tables-d'hote  and  their  ravishing  dishes.  Gone 
is  the  pint  of  vin  ordinaire  at  tenpence.  Will  they 
ever  come  again,  those  gigantic,  lamp-lit  evenings, 
those  Homeric  bob's-worths  of  hors-d'ceuvre, 
soup,  omelette,  chicken,  cheese  and  coffee?  Shall 
we  ever  again  cross  Oxford  Street  to  the  old  Ger- 
man Quarter  and  drink  their  excellent  Pilsener 
and  Munchner,  in  heartening  steins,  and  eat  their 
leber-wurst  sandwiches,  and  smoke  their  long,  thin 
cigars?  Or  seat  ourselves  in  the  Schweitzerhof, 
where  four  wonderful  dishes  were  placed  before 
you  at  a  cost  of  tenpence  by  some  dastard  spy,  in 
the  pay  of  that  invisible-cloak  artist,  the  English 
Bolo? — who  doubtless  reported  to  Berlin  our  con- 
versation about  Phyllis  Monkman's  hair  and  Billy 
Merson's  technique.  Nay,  I  think  not.  The  blight 
of  civilization  is  upon  Soho.  Many  once  cosy  and 
memorable  cafes  are  closed.  Other  places  have 
altered  their  note  and  become  uncomfortably  Eng- 
lish; while  those  that  retain  their  atmosphere  and 
their  customers  have  considerably  changed  their 
menu  and  cuisine.     One-and-ninepence  is  the  low- 


SOHO  CARRIES  ON  6i 

est  charge  for  a  table-d'hote — and  pretty  poor 
hunting  at  that.  The  old  elaborate  half-crown 
dinners  are  now  less  elaborate  and  cost  four  shill- 
ings. And  the  wine-lists — well,  wouldn't  they 
knock  poor  Omar  off  his  perch?  I  don't  know 
who  bought  Omar's  drinks,  or  whether  he  paid 
for  his  own,  but  if  he  lived  in  Soho  to-day  he'd 
have  a  pretty  thin  time  either  way — unless  the 
factory  price  for  tents  had  increased  in  propor- 
tion with  other  things. 

Gone,  too,  is  the  delicious  atmosphere  of 
laisser-faire  that  made  Soho  a  refreshment  of  the 
soul  for  the  visitors  from  Streatham  and  Ealing. 
Soho's  patrons  to-day  have  a  furtive,  guilty  look 
about  them.  You  see,  they  are  trying  to  be  happy 
in  war-time.  No  more  do  you  see  in  the  cafes  the 
cold-eyed  anarchists  and  the  petty  bourgeois  and 
artisans  from  the  foreign  warehouses  of  the  local- 
ity. In  their  place  are  heavy-eyed  women,  placid 
and  monosyllabic,  and  much  khaki  and  horizon 
blue.  Many  of  the  British  soldiers,  officers  and 
privates,  are  men  who  have  not  yet  been  out,  and 
are  experimenting  with  their  French  among  the 
French  girls  who  have  taken  the  places  of  the 
swift-footed,  gestic  Luigi,  Francois  or  Alphonse; 
others  have  come  from  France,  where  they  have 


62  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

discovered  the  piquancy  of  French  cooking,  and 
desire  no  more  the  soHdities  of  the  "  old  Enghsh  " 
chop-house. 

Over  all  Is  an  atmosphere  of  restraint.  Gone 
are  the  furious  argument  and  the  preposterous 
accord.  Gone  are  the  colour  and  the  loud  lights 
and  the  evening  noise.  Soho  is  marking  time, 
until  the  good  days  return — if  ever.  Not  in  19 17 
do  you  see  Old  Compton  Street  as  a  line  of  warm 
and  fragrant  cafe-windows;  instead,  you  stumble 
drunkenly  through  a  dim,  murky  lane,  and  take 
your  chance  by  pushing  the  first  black  door  that 
exudes  a  smell  of  food.  Gone,  too,  are  those 
exotic  foods  that  brought  such  zest  to  the  jaded 
palate.  The  macaroni  and  spaghetti  now  being 
manufactured  in  London  are  poor  substitutes  for 
the  real  thing,  being  served  in  long,  flat  strips 
instead  of  in  the  graceful  pipe  form  of  other  days. 
Camembert,  Brie,  Roquefort,  Gruyere,  Port  Salut, 
Strachini  and  other  enchanting  cheeses  are  unob- 
tainable; and  you  may  cry  in  vain  for  edible  snails 
and  the  savoury  stew  of  frogs'  legs.  True,  the 
Chinese  cafe  in  Regent  Street  can  furnish  for  the 
adventurous  stomach  such  trifles  as  black  eggs 
(guaranteed  thirty  years  old),  sharks'  fins  at 
seven  shillings  a  portion,  stewed  seaweed,  bamboo 


SOHO  CARRIES  ON  63 

shoots,  and  sweet  birds'-nests;  but  Regent  Street 
is  beyond  the  bounds  of  Soho. 

Nevertheless,  if  you  attend  carefully,  and  if 
you  are  lucky,  you  may  still  catch  in  Old  Compton 
Street  a  faint  echo  of  its  graces  and  picturesque 
melancholy.  You  may  still  see  and  hear  the  som- 
bre Yid,  the  furious  Italian,  the  yodelling  Swiss, 
and  the  deprecating  French,  hanging  about  the 
dozen  or  so  coffee-bars  that  have  appeared  since 
19 14.  A  few  of  these  places  existed  in  certain 
corners  of  London  long  before  that  date,  but 
it  is  only  lately  that  the  Londoner  has  discovered 
them  and  called  for  more.  The  Londoner — I 
offer  this  fact  to  all  students  of  national  traits — 
must  always  lean  when  taking  his  refreshment. 
Certain  gay  and  festive  gentlemen,  who  constitute 
an  instrument  of  order  called  the  Central  Control 
Board,  forbid  him  to  lean  in  those  places  where, 
of  old,  he  was  accustomed  to  lean;  at  any  rate,  he 
is  only  allowed  to  lean  during  certain  defined 
hours.  You  might  think  that  he  would  have 
gladly  availed  himself  of  this  opportunity  for 
resting  awhile  by  sitting  at  a  marble-topped  table 
and  drinking  coffee  or  tea,  or — horrid  thought! — 
cocoa.  But  no;  he  isn't  happy  unless  he  leans 
over  his  refreshment;  and  the  cafe-bar  has  sup- 


64  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

plied  his  demands.  There  is  something  in  lean- 
ing against  a  bar  which  entirely  changes  one's 
outlook.  You  may  sit  at  a  table  and  drink  whisky- 
and-soda,  and  yet  not  achieve  a  tithe  of  the  ex- 
pansiveness  that  is  yours  when  you  are  leaning 
against  a  bar  and  drinking  dispiriting  stuff  like 
coffee  or  sirop.  Maybe  the  physical  attitude  re- 
acts on  the  mind,  and  tightens  up  certain  cords  or 
sinews,  or  eases  the  blood-pressure;  anyway,  fears, 
doubts,  and  cautions  seem  to  vanish  in  these  little 
corners  of  France,  and  momentarily  the  old  ani- 
mation of  Soho  returns. 

In  these  places  you  may  perchance  yet  cap- 
ture for  a  fleeting  space  the  will-o'-the-wisperie  of 
other  days:  movement  and  festal  colour;  laughter 
and  quick  tears;  the  warm  jest  and  the  darkling 
mystery  that  epitomize  the  city  of  all  cities;  and 
the  wanton,  rose-winged  graces  that  flutter  about 
the  fair  head  of  M'selle  Lolotte,  as  she  hands  you 
your  cafe  nature  and  an  April  smile  for  sweeten- 
ing, carry  to  you  a  breath  of  the  glitter  and  spa- 
ciousness of  old  time.  You  do  not  know  Lolotte, 
perhaps!  Thousand  commiserations,  M'sieu! 
What  damage!  Is  Lolotte  lovely  and  delicate? 
But  of  a  loveliness  of  the  most  ravishing!  The 
shining  hair  and  the  eyes  of  the  most  disturbing! 


SOHO  CARRIES  ON  65 

Lolotte  is  in  direct  descent  from  Mimi  Pinson, 
half  angel  and  half  puss. 

Soldiers  of  all  the  Allied  armies  gather  about 
her  crescent-shaped  bar  after  half-past  nine  of  an 
evening.  The  floor  is  sawdusted.  The  counter  is 
sloppy  with  overflows  of  coffee.  Lips  and  nose 
receive  from  the  air  that  bitter  tang  derived  only 
from  the  smoke  of  Maryland  tobacco.  The  varied 
uniforms  of  the  patrons  make  a  harmony  of 
debonair  gaiety  with  the  many-coloured  bottles 
of  cordials  and  sirops. 

"Pardon,  m'sieu!"  cries  the  poilu,  as  he  acci- 
dentally jogs  the  arm  by  which  Sergeant  Michael 
Cassidy  is  raising  his  coffee-cup. 

"  Oh,  sarner  fairy  hang,  mossoo!  Moselle, 
donnay  mwaw  urn  Granny  Dean." 

"M'sieu  parle  francais,  alors?" 

"  Ah,  oui.     Jer  parle  urn  purr.'* 

And  another  supporting  column  is  added  to  the 
structure  of  the  Entente. 

Over  in  the  corner  stands  a  little  fat  fellow. 
That  corner  belongs  to  him  by  right  of  three 
years'  occupation.  He  is  'Ockington  from  a  near- 
by printing  works.  Ask  'Ockington  what  he  thinks 
about  these  'ere  coffee-bars. 

"  Ah,"  he'll  say,  "  I  like  these  Frenchified  caf- 


66  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

fies.  Grand  idea,  if  you  aslc  me.  Makes  yeh  feel 
as  though  you  was  abroad-like.  Gives  yeh  that 
Lazy-Fare  feelin'.  I  bin  abroad,  y'know.  Dessay 
you  'ave,  too,  shouldn't  wonder.  I  don't  blame 
yeh.  See  what  yeh  can  while  yeh  can,  'ats  what  I 
say.  My  young  Sid  went  over  to  Paris  one  Bang 
Koliday,  'fore  the  war,  an'  he  come  back  as 
different  again.  Yerce,  I'm  all  fer  the  French 
caffies,  I  am.  Nicely  got  up,  I  think.  Good 
meoggerny  counter;  and  this  floor  and  the  walls — 
all  done  in  that  what-d'ye  call  it — mosey-ac.  What 
I  alwis  say  is  this :  the  French  is  a  gay  nation. 
Gay.  And  you  feel  it  'ere,  doncher?  Sort  of 
cheers  you  up,  like,  if  yer  know  what  I  mean,  to 
drop  in  'ere  for  a  minute  or  two.  .  .  .  Year  or 
two  ago,  now,  after  a  rush  job  at  the  Works,  I 
used  to  stop  at  a  coffee-stall  on  me  way  'ome  late 
at  night,  an'  'ave  a  penny  cup  o'  swipes — yerce, 
an'  glad  of  it.  But  the  difference  in  the  stuff 
they  give  yer  'ere — don't  it  drink  lovely  and 
smooth?  " 

Then  his  monologue  is  interrupted  by  the  elec- 
tric piano,  which  some  one  has  fed  with  pennies; 
and  your  ear  is  charmed  or  tortured  by  the  latest 
revue  music  or  old  favourites  from  Paris  and 
Naples — "  Marguerite,"      "  Sous    les    ponts    de 


SOHO  CARRIES  ON  67 

Paris,"  "  Monaco,"  the  Tripoli  March.  If  you 
appear  interested  in  the  piano,  whose  voice  Lo- 
lotte  loves,  she  will  offer  to  toss  you  for  the  next 
penn'orth.  Never  does  she  lose.  She  wins  by  the 
simple  trick  of  snatching  your  penny  away  the 
moment  you  lift  your  hand  from  it,  and  gurgling 
delightedly  at  your  discomfiture. 

No  wonder  the  coffee-bar  has  become  such  a 
feature  of  London  life  in  this  time  of  war.  Lean- 
ing, in  Lolotte's  bar,  is  a  real  and  not  a  forced 
pleasure.  In  the  old  days  one  could  lean  and 
absorb  the  drink  of  one's  choice;  but  amid  what 
company  and  with  what  service !  Who  could 
possibly  desire  to  exchange  fatigued  inanities  with 
the  vacuous  vulgarities  who  administer  the  ordi- 
nary London  bar;  who  seem,  like  telephone  girls, 
to  have  taken  lessons  from  some  insane  teacher 
of  elocution,  with  their  "  Nooh  riarly?"  expres- 
sive of  incredulity;  and  their  "  Is  yewers  a 
Scartch,  Mr.  Iggulden?"  But  in  Lolotte's  bar, 
talk  is  bright,  sometimes  distinctly  clever,  and  one 
lingers  over  one's  coffee,  chaffering  with  her  for 
— well,  ask  'Ockington  how  long  he  stays. 

But  Lolotte  is  not  always  gay.  Sometimes  she 
will  tell  you  stories  of  Paris.  There  is  a  terrible 
story  which  she  tells  when  she  is  feeling  triste. 


68  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

It  is  the  story  of  a  girl  friend  of  hers  with  whom 
she  worked  in  Paris,  The  girl  grew  ill;  lost  her 
work;  and  earned  her  living  by  the  only  possible 
means,  until  she  grew  too  ill  for  that.  One  night 
Lolotte  met  her  wearily  walking  the  streets.  She 
had  been  without  food  for  two  days,  and  had  that 
morning  been  turned  from  her  lodging.  Sud- 
denly, as  they  passed  a  florist's,  she  darted  through 
its  doors  and  inquired  the  price  of  some  opulent 
blooms  at  the  further  end  of  the  shop.  The  shop- 
man turned  towards  them,  and,  as  he  turned,  she 
dexterously  snatched  a  bunch  of  white  violets 
from  a  vase  on  the  counter.  The  price  of  the 
orchids,  she  decided,  was  too  high,  and  she  came 
out. 

Lolotte,  who  had  seen  the  trick  from  the  door- 
way, inquired  the  reason  for  the  theft.     And  the 


answer  was 


Eh,  bien;  il  faiit  avoir  qiielquechose  qiiand  on 
va  rencontrer  le  bon  Dieii." 

Two  days  later  her  body,  with  a  bunch  of  white 
violets  fastened  at  the  neck,  was  recovered  from 
the  Seine. 


OUT  OF  TOWN 

It  was  an  empty  day,  in  the  early  part  of  the 
year,  and  I  was  Its  very  idle  singer;  so  idle  that 
I  was  beginning  to  wonder  whether  there  would 
be  any  Sunday  dinner  for  me.  I  took  stock  of 
my  possessions  in  coin,  and  found  one-and-ten- 
pence-halfpenny.  Was  I  downhearted?  Yes. 
But  I  didn't  worry,  for  when  things  are  at  their 
worst,  my  habit  is  always  to  fold  my  hands  and 
trust.     Something  always  happens. 

Something  happened  on  this  occasion:  a  double 
knock  at  the  door  and  a  telegram.  It  was  from 
the  most  enlightened  London  publisher,  whose 
firm  has  done  so  much  in  the  way  of  encouraging 
young  writers,  and  It  asked  me  to  call  at  once.  I 
did  so. 

"  Like  to  go  to  Monte  Carlo?  "  he  asked. 

When  I  had  recovered  from  the  swoon,  I  beg- 
ged him  to  ask  another. 

"  Here's    an   American   millionaire,"    he    said, 

69 


70  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

"  writing  from  Monte  Carlo.  He  wants  to  write 
a  book,  and  he  wants  some  assistance.  How 
would  it  suit  you?  " 

I  said  it  would  suit  me  like  a  Savile  Row  out- 
fit of  clothes. 

"When  can  you  go?" 

"  Any  old  time." 

"  Right.  You'd  better  wire  him,  and  tell  him 
I  told  you  to.  Don't  let  yourself  go  cheap. 
Good-bye." 

I  didn't  fall  on  his  neck  in  an  outburst  of  grati- 
tude:  he  wouldn't  have  liked  it.  But  I  yodelled 
and  chirruped  all  the  way  to  the  nearest  post- 
office,  having  touched  a  friend  for  ten  shillings  on 
the  strength  of  the  stunt.  All  that  day  and  the 
next,  telegrams  passed  between  Monte  Carlo  and 
Balham.  I  asked  a  noble  salary  and  expenses, 
and  a  wire  came  back:  "Start  at  once."  I  re- 
pHed:  "  No  money."  Ten  pounds  were  delivered 
at  my  doorstep  next  morning,  with  the  repeated 
message  "  Start  at  once." 

But  starting  at  once,  in  war-time,  was  not  so 
easily  done.  There  was  a  passport  to  get.  That 
meant  three  days'  lounging  in  a  little  wooden 
hut  in  the  yard  of  the  Foreign  Office.  Having 
got  the  passport,  I  spent  four  hours  in  a  queue 


OUT  OF  TOWN  71 

outside  the  French  Consulate  before  I  could  get 
it  vtse.  Six  days  after  the  first  telegram,  I  stood 
shivering  on  Victoria  Station  at  seven  o'clock  of 
a  cadaverous  January  morning.  Having  been 
well  and  truly  searched  in  another  little  hut,  and 
having  kissed  the  book,  and  sworn  full-flavoured 
oaths  about  correspondence,  and  thought  of  a 
number,  and  added  four  to  it,  I  was  allowed  to 
board  the  train. 

Half  the  British  Army  was  on  that  train,  and 
Mr.  Jerome  K.  Jerome  and  myself  were  the  only 
civilians  in  our  carriage.  You  will  rightly  guess 
that  it  was  a  lively  journey.  I  had  always  won- 
dered, in  peace-time,  why  the  jew's-harp  was  in- 
vented. I  understand  now.  In  the  histories  of 
this  war,  the  jew's-harp  will  take  as  romantic  a 
place  as  the  pipes  of  Lucknow  or  the  drums  of 
Oude  in  the  histories  of  other  wars. 

At  Folkestone  there  were  more  searchings, 
more  stamping  of  passports,  more  papers  and 
*'  permissions  "  to  bulk  one's  pocket  and  perplex 
one's  mind.  On  the  boat,  standing-room  only, 
and  when  a  gestic  stewardess  sought  seats  for  a 
fond  mother  and  five  little  ones  in  the  ladies' 
saloon,  she  found  all  places  occupied  by  khaki 
figures  stretched  at  full  length. 


72  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

"  Settlement  les  dames!"  she  cried,  pointing  to 
a  notice  over  the  door. 

"Aha,  madame!"  said  a  stalwart  Australian, 
"  mais  c'est  la  guerre!  "  In  other  words  "  Au- 
brey Llewellyn  Coventry  Fell  to  you !  " 

Yes,  it  was  war;  and  it  was  tactfully  suggested 
to  us  by  the  crew,  for,  when  we  were  clear  of 
Folkestone  harbour,  all  boats  were  slung  out, 
and  lifeboats  were  placed  in  tragic  heaps  on 
either  side.  It  was  a  cold,  angry  sea,  and  stew- 
ards and  stewardesses  became  aggressively  pro- 
phetic about  the  fine  crossing  that  we  were  to 
have.  Germany  had  a  few  days  before  declared 
her  first  blockade  of  the  English  coast,  and  every 
speck  on  the  sea  became  dreadfully  portentous. 
At  mid-Channel  a  destroyer  stood  in  to  us  and 
ran  up  a  stream  of  signals. 

"  This  is  it,"  chortled  a  Cockney,  between  vio- 
lent trips  to  the  side;  "this  is  it!  Now  we're 
for  it!" 

Next  moment  I  got  a  push  in  the  back,  and  I 
thought  it  had  come.  But  it  was  the  elbow  of  one 
of  the  crew  who  had  rushed  forward,  and  was 
sorting  bits  of  bunting  from  an  impossibly  tan- 
gled heap  at  my  side.  In  about  two  seconds,  he 
found  what  he  wanted  and  hauled  at  a  rope.     Up 


OUT  OF  TOWN  73 

went  what  looked  like  a  patchwork  counterpane, 
until  the  breeze  caught  it,  when  it  became  a  string 
of  shapes  and  colours,  straining  deliriously  against 
its  fastenings.  Then  down  it  came;  then  up  again; 
then  down;  then  up;  then  down;  and  that  was 
the  end  of  that  conversation.  I  don't  know  what 
it  signified,  but  half  an  hour  later  we  were  in 
Boulogne  harbour. 

More  comic  business  with  papers;  then  to  the 
train.  Yes,  it  was  war.  The  bridge  over  the 
Gise  had  not  then  been  repaired;  so  we  crawled 
to  Paris  by  an  absurdly  crab-like  route.  We  left 
Boulogne  just  after  twelve.  We  reached  Paris 
at  ten  o'clock  at  night.  There  was  no  food  on 
the  train,  and  from  six  o'clock  that  morning, 
when  I  had  had  a  swift  cup  of  tea,  until  nearly 
midnight  I  got  nothing  in  the  way  of  refresh- 
ment. But  who  cared?  I  was  going  South  to 
meet  an  American  millionaire,  and  I  had  money 
in  my  pocket. 

I  arrived  at  Paris  too  late  to  connect  with  that 
night's  P.L.M.  express,  so  I  had  twenty-four 
hours  to  kill.  I  strolled  idly  about,  and  found 
Paris  very  little  changed.  There  was  an  air 
about  the  people  of  irritation,  of  questioning,  of 
petulant  suffering;  they  had  a  manner  expressive 


74  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

of  "A  quoi  honf"  Somebody  in  high  quarters 
had  brought  this  thing  upon  them.  Somebody  in 
high  quarters  might  rescue  them  from  its  evils — 
or  might  not.  They  moved  like  stricken  animals, 
their  habitual  melancholy,  which  is  often  un- 
noticed because  it  is  overlaid  with  vivacity,  now 
permanently  in  possession. 

I  caught  the  night  express  to  Monte  Carlo. 
Our  carriage  contained  eight  sombre  people,  and 
the  corridors  were  strewn  with  sleep-stupid  sol- 
diers. I  was  one  sardine  among  many,  and,  with 
a  twenty-seven-hour  journey  before  me  in  this 
overheated,  hermetically  sealed  sardine-tin,  I 
began  to  think  what  a  fool  I  had  been  to  make 
this  absurd  journey  to  a  place  that  was  strange  to 
me;  to  meet  a  millionaire  about  whom  I  knew 
nothing,  and  who  might  have  changed  his  mind, 
millionaire-fashion,  and  left  Monte  Carlo  by  the 
time  I  got  there;  and  to  undertake  a  job  which 
I  might  find,  on  examination,  was  beyond  me. 

Then,  with  a  French  girl's  head  on  one  shoul- 
der, and  my  other  twisted  at  an  impossible  angle 
into  the  window-frame,  I  went  to  sleep  and  awoke 
at  Lyons,  with  a  horrible  headache  and  an  un- 
bearable mouth,  the  result  of  the  boiling  and  over- 
spiced  soup  I  had  swallowed  the  night  before,     I 


OUT  OF  TOWN  7S 

think  we  all  hated  each  other.  It  was  impossible 
to  wash  or  arrange  oneself  decently,  and  again 
there  was  no  food  on  the  train.  But,  as  only  the 
Latin  mind  can,  we  made  the  best  of  it  and  pre- 
tended that  it  was  funny.  Girls  and  men,  com- 
plete strangers,  drooped  in  abandonment  against 
one  another,  or  reclined  on  unknown  necks.  A 
young  married  couple  behaved  in  a  way  that  at 
other  times  would  have  meant  a  divorce.  The 
husband  rested  his  sagging  head  on  the  bosom 
of  a  stout  matron,  and  a  poilu  stretched  a  rug 
across  his  knees  and  made  a  comfortable  pillow 
for  the  little  wife.    N'imporie.     C'ctait  la  guerre. 

On  the  platform  at  Lyons  were  groups  of 
French  Red  Cross  girls  with  wagons  of  coffee. 
This  coffee  was  for  the  soldiers,  but  they  handed 
it  round  impartially  to  civilians  and  soldiers 
alike,  and  those  who  cared  could  drop  a  few  sous 
Into  the  collecting  basin.  That  coffee  was  the 
sweetest  draught  I  had  ever  swallowed. 

At  Marseilles  It  was  bright  morning,  and  I  was 
lucky  enough  to  get  a  pannier,  at  a  trifling  cost 
of  seven  francs.  These  panniers  are  no  meal 
for  a  hungry  man.  They  contain  a  bone  of 
chicken,  a  scrap  of  ham,  a  corner  of  Gruyere,  a 
stick  of  bread  (that  surely  was  made  by  the  firm 


76  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

that  put  the  sand  in  sandwich),  a  half-bottle  of 
sour  white  wine,  a  bottle  of  the  eternal  Vichy, 
Old  Uncle  Tom  Cobleigh  and  all. 

I  had  just  finished  it  when  we  rolled  into  Tou- 
lon, and  there  I  got  my  first  glimpse  of  the  true, 
warm  South.  I  suffered  a  curious  sense  of 
"  coming  home."  I  had  not  known  it,  but  all  my 
childish  dreams  must  have  had  for  their  back- 
ground this  coloured  South,  for,  the  moment  it 
spread  itself  before  me,  bits  of  Verdi  melodies 
ran  through  my  heart  and  brain  and  I  danced  a 
double-shuffle.  Since  I  was  old  enough  to  handle 
a  fiddle,  all  music  has  interpreted  itself  to  me  in 
a  visualization  of  blue  seas,  white  coasts,  green 
palms  with  lemon  and  nectarine  dancing  through 
them,  and  noisy,  sun-bright  towns,  and  swart 
faces  and  languorous  and  joyfully  dirty  people. 
The  keenest  sense  of  being  at  home  came  later, 
when,  at  Monte  Carlo,  I  met  Giacomo  Puccini, 
the  hero  of  my  young  days,  whose  music  had  il- 
lumined so  many  dark  moments  of  my  City  slav- 
ery; who  is  in  the  direct  line  of  succession  from 
Verdi. 

This  first  visit  to  Monte  Carlo  showed  me 
Monte  Carlo  as  she  never  was  before.  Half  the 
hotels  were  closed  or  turned  into  hospitals,  since 


OUT  OF  TOWN  77 

all  the  German  hotel-staffs  had  been  packed  home. 
In  other  times  it  would  have  been  "  the  season," 
but  now  there  was  everywhere  a  sense  of  empti- 
ness. Wounded  British  and  French  officers 
paraded  the  Terrace;  disabled  blacks  from  Al- 
geria were  on  every  hotel  verandah  or  wandering 
aimlessly  about  the  hilly  streets  with  a  sad  air  of 
being  lost.  The  Casino  was  open,  but  it  closed 
at  eleven,  and  all  the  cafes  closed  with  it;  the 
former  happy  night-life  had  been  nipped  off 
short.     At  midnight  the  place  was  dead. 

I  was  accommodated  at  an  Italian  pension  in 
Beausoleil,  which,  in  peace-times,  was  patronized 
by  music-hall  artists  working  the  Beausoleil  cas- 
ino. The  Casino  had  been  turned  into  a  barracks, 
but  one  or  two  Italian  danseuses  from  the  cabarets 
of  San  Remo  were  taking  a  brief  rest,  so  that  the 
days  were  less  tiresome  than  they  might  have 
been.  My  millionaire  was  a  charming  man,  who 
used  my  services  but  a  few  hours  each  day.  Then 
I  could  dally  with  the  sunshine  and  the  Chianti 
and  the  breaking  seas  about  the  Condamine. 

When  I  next  want  a  cheap  holiday  I  shan't  go 
to  Brighton,  or  Eastbourne,  or  Cromer;  I  shall 
go  to  Monte  Carlo.  The  dear  Italian  Mama 
who  kept  the  pension  treated  me  like  a  prince  for 


78  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

thirty-five  francs  a  week.  I  had  a  large  bedroom, 
with  four  windows  looking  to  the  Alpes  Mari- 
times,  and  a  huge,  downy  French  bed;  I  had 
coffee  and  roll  in  the  morning;  a  four-course 
lunch  of  Italian  dishes,  with  a  bottle  of  Chianti 
or  Barolo;  and  a  five-course  dinner,  again  with 
a  bottle.  Those  meals  were  the  most  delightful 
I  have  ever  taken.  The  windows  of  the  dining- 
room  were  flung  wide  to  the  Mediterranean,  and 
between  courses  we  could  bask  on  the  verandah 
while  one  of  the  girls  would  touch  the  guitar,  the 
mandolin,  or  the  accordion  (sometimes  we  had 
all  three  going  at  once),  in  effervescent  Neapoli- 
tan melody.  My  contribution  to  these  meal-time 
entertainments  was  an  English  song  of  which  they 
never  tired:  "The  Man  that  Broke  the  Bank  at 
Monte  Carr-rr-lo !  "  Sometimes  it  was  demanded 
five  or  six  times  in  an  evening.  Immediately  I 
arrived  I  was  properly  embraced  and  kissed  by 
Mama  and  the  three  girls,  and  these  rapturous 
kisses  seemed  to  be  part  of  the  etiquette  of  the 
establishment,  for  they  happened  every  morning 
and  after  all  meals.  M'selle  Lola  was  allotted 
to  me;  a  blonde  Italian,  afire  with  mischief  and 
loving-kindness  and  little  delicacies  of  affection. 
On  the  third  day  of  my  visit  I  met  a  kindred 


OUT  OF  TOWN  79 

soul,  the  wireless  operator  from  the  Prince  of 
Monaco's  yacht,  L'Hirondelle,  which  was  lying 
in  the  harbour  on  loan  to  the  French  Govern- 
ment. He  was  a  bright  youth;  had  been  many 
times  on  long  cruises  with  the  yacht,  and  spoke 
English  which  was  as  good  as  my  French  was  bad. 
We  had  some  delightful  "  noces  "  together,  and 
it  was  in  his  company  that  I  met  and  had  talks  with 
Caruso  at  the  Cafe  de  Paris.  An  opera  season 
was  running  at  the  Casino,  and  on  opera  nights 
the  cafe  remained  open  until  a  little  past  mid- 
night. After  the  evening's  work  Caruso  would 
drop  into  the  cafe  and  talk  with  everybody.  His 
naive  gratification  when  I  told  him  how  I  had 
saved  money  for  weeks,  and  had  waited  hours  at 
the  gallery  door  of  Covent  Garden  to  hear  him 
sing,  was  delightful  to  witness.  Prince  George 
of  Serbia  was  also  there,  recuperating;  but  though 
the  Terrace  at  mid-day  was  crowded  and  pleas- 
antly bright,  I  was  told  that  against  the  Terrace 
in  the  old  seasons  it  was  miserably  dull. 

On  ordinary  nights,  when  we  felt  still  fresh  at 
eleven  o'clock,  we  would  take  a  car  to  Mentone, 
cross  the  frontier  into  Italy  (which  was  not  then 
at  war) ,  and  spend  a  few  cheery  hours  at  Bordig- 
hera  or  San  Remo,  which  were  nightless.     Then 


8o  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

back  to  Monte  Carlo  at  about  five,  to  bed,  and  up 
again  at  nine,  with  no  feeling  of  fatigue.  It  was 
curious  to  note  how,  under  that  sharp  sunshine 
and  keen  night  sky,  all  moral  values  were 
changed,  or  wholly  obliterated.  The  first  breath 
of  the  youthful  company  at  the  pension  blew  all 
London  cobwebs  away.  It  was  all  so  abandoned, 
yet  so  sweet  and  wholesome;  and,  by  contrast,  the 
English  seaside  resort,  where  the  girls  play  at 
"  letting  themselves  go,"  was  a  crude  and  shame- 
ful farce.  Whatever  happened  at  Monaco 
seemed  to  be  right;  nothing  was  wrong  except 
frigidity  and  unkindness. 

My  dear  Italian  Mama  said  to  me  one  evening 
at  dinner,  when  I  had  (in  the  English  sense) 
disgraced  myself  by  a  remark  straight  from  the 
heart: — 

'^  M'sieu  Thomas,  on  m'a  dit  que  les  anglais 
ont  froid.     C'est  pas  vraif  " 

No,  dear  Mamina;  but  it  was  true  before  I 
stayed  at  the  Pension  Poggio  at  Beausoleil. 

My  work  with  the  millionaire  spread  itself 
over  two  months;  then,  with  a  fat  wad,  I  was  free 
to  return.  It  was  not  until  I  went  to  the  Con- 
sulate to  get  my  passport  vise  that  I  discovered 
how  many  war-time  laws  of  France  I  had  broken. 


OUT  OF  TOWN  8i 

I  had  not  registered  myself  on  arrival;  T  had  not 
reported  myself  periodically;  and  I  had  not  ob- 
tained a  permis  de  sejour.  The  Consul  informed 
me  cheerfully  that  heaps  of  trouble  would  be 
waiting  for  me  when  I  went  to  the  Mairie  to  get 
my  kissez-passer,  without  which  I  could  not  buy 
a  railway  ticket.  However,  after  being  stood  in 
a  corner  for  two  hours  until  all  other  travellers 
had  received  attention,  a  laissez-passer  was 
thrown  at  me  on  my  undertaking  to  leave  Monte 
Carlo  that  night.  A  gendarme  accompanied  me 
to  the  station  to  see  that  I  did  so. 

At  Paris,  a  few  hours  spent  with  the  police, 
the  military,  Hotel-de-Ville,  and  the  British  Con- 
sulate resulted  in  permission  to  kick  my  heels 
there  for  a  day  or  so. 

A  few  mornings  later  arrived  the  millionaire's 
precious  MS.,  which  I  had  left  behind  so  that 
he  might  revise  it,  with  a  message  to  hustle.  I 
hustled.  I  reached  London  the  same  night.  Next 
morning  I  negotiated  with  a  publisher.  In  two 
days  it  was  In  the  printer's  hands  and  in  a  fort- 
night it  was  in  the  bookshops;  and  I  was  again 
out  of  a  job. 


IN  SEARCH  OF  A  SHOW 

I  HAVE  been  looking  for  a  needle  in  a  haystack, 
and  I  have  not  found  It.  I  have  been  looking  for 
an  hour's  true  entertainment  In  London's  theatres 
and  music-halls  during  this  spring  season  of 
1918. 

The  tag  of  Mr.  Gus  Elen's  old  song,  "  'E 
dunno  where  'e  are,"  very  aptly  describes  the  con- 
dition of  the  regular  theatre-goer  to-day.  What 
would  the  old  laddies  of  the  Bodega-cheese  days 
have  thought,  had  any  prophesied  that  at  one 
swift  step  the  Oxford  and  the  Pavilion  would 
simultaneously  move  Into  the  ranks  of  the  "  legit- 
imate;" that  His  Majesty's  Theatre  would  be 
running  a  pantomime;  that  smoking  would  be  al- 
lowed In  the  Lyceum,  the  Comedy,  the  Vaude- 
ville, and  the  Garrick?  Many  people  have  lost 
their  Individuality  by  being  merged  into  one  or 
other  war-movement  since  19 14;  many  streets 
have  entirely  lost  those  distinctive  features  which 
enable  us  to  recognize  them  at  one  glance  or  by 

88 


IN  SEARCH  OF  A  SHOW  83 

sound  or  smell;  but  nowhere  has  the  war  more 
completely  smashed  personality  than  in  theatre- 
land. 

In  the  old  days  (one  must  use  that  pathetic 
phrase  in  speaking  of  ante-1914),  the  visitor  to 
London  knew  precisely  the  type  of  entertainment 
and  the  type  of  audience  he  would  find  at  any 
given  establishment.  To-day,  one  figures  his  be- 
wilderment— verily,  'e  dunno  where  'e  are. 
Formerly,  he  could  be  sure  that  at  the  Garrick 
he  would  find  Mr.  Bourchier  playing  a  Bourchi- 
eresque  part.  At  His  Majesty's  he  would  find 
just  what  he  wanted — or  would  want  what  he 
found — for  going  to  His  Majesty's  was  not  a 
matter  of  dropping  in :  it  was  a  pious  function. 
At  the  Alhambra  or  the  Empire  he  would  be  sure 
of  finding  excellent  ballet  at  about  ten  o'clock, 
when  he  could  sip  his  drink,  stroll  round  the 
promenade,  and  leave  when  he  felt  like  it.  At 
the  time  I  write  he  finds  Mr.  Bourchier  playing 
low  comedy  at  a  transformed  music-hall,  and  at 
the  Alhambra  or  the  Empire  he  finds  a  suburban 
crowd,  neatly  seated  in  rows — father,  mother  and 
flappers — watching  a  quite  innocuous  entertain- 
ment. 

Managers  were  long  wont  to  classify  in  their 


84  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

minds  the  "  Garrick  "  audience,  the  "  Daly  "  au- 
dience, the  "  Adelphi "  audience,  the  "  Hay- 
market  "  audience ;  and  plays  would  be  refused 
by  a  manager  on  the  ground  that  "  our  audience 
wouldn't  stand  it;  try  the  Lyric."  To-day  they 
are  all  in  the  melting-pot,  and  the  poor  habitue 
of  the  So-and-so  Theatre  has  to  take  what  is 
given  him,  and  be  mighty  thankful  for  it. 

At  one  time  I  loved  a  show,  however  cheap  its 
kind;  but  in  these  days,  after  visiting  a  war-time 
show  and  suffering  the  feeling  of  assisting  at  some 
forbidden  rite,  I  always  wish  I  had  wasted  the 
evening  in  some  other  manner.  Since  19 14  the 
theatres  have  not  produced  one  show  that  any 
sober  man  would  pay  two  pence  to  see.  The 
stuff  that  has  been  produced  has  paid  its  way  be- 
cause the  bulk  of  the  public  is  drunk — with  war 
or  overwork.  The  story  of  the  stage  since  19 14 
may  be  given  in  one  word — "  Punk."  Knowing 
that  we  are  all  too  preoccupied  with  solemn  af- 
fairs to  examine  very  closely  our  money's-worth, 
and  knowing  that  the  boys  on  leave  are  not  likely 
to  be  too  hypercritical,  the  theatrical  money-lords 
— with  one  noble  exception — have  taken  advan- 
tage of  the  situation  to  fub  us  off  with  any  old 
store-room  rubbish.    We  have  dozens  of  genuine 


IN  SEARCH  OF  A  SHOW  85 

music-hall  comedians  on  the  stage  to-day,  but  they 
are  all  slacking.  Some  of  them  get  absorbed  by 
West  End  shows,  and  at  once,  when  they  appear 
on  the  gigantic  American  stages  of  some  of  our 
modern  theatres,  surrounded  by  crowds  of  ele- 
phantine women,  they  lose  whatever  character 
and  spontaneity  they  had.  Others  give  the  bulk 
of  their  time  and  brains  to  earning  cheap  noto- 
riety by  raising  funds  for  charities  or  cultivating 
allotments — both  commendable  activities,  but  not 
compatible  with  the  serious  business  of  cheering 
the  public.  Gradually,  the  individual  is  being 
frozen  out,  and  the  stages  are  loaded  with  crowds 
of  horsey,  child-aping  women,  called  by  courtesy 
a  beauty  chorus;  the  show  being  called,  also  by 
courtesy,  a  revue.  These  shows  resemble  a  revue 
as  much  as  the  short  stories  of  popular  magazines 
resemble  a  conte.  They  dazzle  the  eye  and  blast 
the  ear,  and,  instead  of  entertaining,  exhaust. 

The  ari'sts  have,  allowing  for  human  nature, 
done  their  best  under  trying  circumstances;  but 
playing  to  an  audience  of  overseas  khaki  and  tired 
working-people,  who  applaud  their  most  mala- 
droit japes,  has  had  the  effect  of  wearing  them 
down.  They  no  longer  work.  They  take  the 
easiest  way,  knowing  that  any  remark  about  the 


86  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

Kaiser,  Old  Bill,  meat-cards,  or  the  Better  'Ole 
is  sure  of  a  laugh. 

One  solitary  example  of  money's-worth  in  war- 
time I  found — but  that  is  outside  the  lists  of 
vaudeville  or  drama.  I  mean  Sir  Thomas  Beech- 
am's  operative  enterprise.  Beginning,  in  19 15, 
to  develop  his  previous  tentative  experiments — 
fighting  against  indifference,  prejudice,  often 
against  active  opposition — he  went  steadily  on; 
and  it  is  he  whom  our  men  must  thank  if,  on  re- 
turning, they  find  in  England  something  besides 
factories  and  barracks.  There  is  no  man  who, 
amid  this  welter  of  blood  and  hate,  has  per- 
formed work  of  higher  national  importance. 
While  every  effort  was  made  to  stifle  or  stultify 
every  movement  that  made  towards  sanity  and 
vision,  he  went  doggedly  forward,  striving  to  save 
from  the  wreckage  some  trifle  of  sweetness  and 
loveliness  for  those  who  have  ears  to  hear.  Had 
certain  good  people  had  their  way,  he,  his  ideals, 
his  singers,  his  orchestra  and  his  band  instruments 
would  have  been  flung  into  the  general  cesspool, 
to  lie  there  and  rot.  But  he  won  through;  and 
I  think  only  that  enemy  of  civilization,  the 
screaming,  flag-wagging  patriot,  will  disagree 
with  a  famous  Major-General  who,  in  full  war- 


IN  SEARCH  OF  A  SHOW  87 

paint,  stood  at  my  side  in  the  theatre  bar  between 
the  acts  of  Tristan,  and,  turning  upon  a  querulous 
civilian  who  had  snorted  against  Wagner,  cried 
angrily : — 

"  Nonsense,  sir,  nonsense.     War  is  war.     And 


music  is  music." 


After  years  of  struggling,  Beecham  has  made 
it  possible  for  an  English  singer  to  sing  to  Eng- 
lish audiences  under  his  English  name,  and  has 
proved  what  theatrical  and  music-hall  managers 
never  attempt  to  prove :  that  England  can  produce 
her  own  native  talent  in  music  and  drama,  with- 
out taking  the  fourth-rate  and  fifth-rate,  as  well 
as  the  first-rate,  material  of  America  and  the 
Continent.  He  has  shown  himself  at  once  a  phil- 
anthropist and  a  patriot.  In  none  of  his  produc- 
tions do  we  find  signs  of  that  cheap  philosophy 
that  "  anything  will  do  for  war-time."  Before  the 
arrival  of  his  company,  opera  in  London  was  a 
mere  social  function  which  (except  from  the  point 
of  view  of  the  galleryite)  had  little  to  do  with 
music.  People  went  to  Covent  Garden  not  to 
listen  to  music,  but  to  be  seen;  just  as  they  went 
to  the  Savoy  or  to  the  Carlton  to  be  seen,  not  to 
procure  nourishment.  The  Beecham  opera  is  first 
and  last  a  matter  of  music. 


88  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

So,  Sir  Thomas,  a  few  thousand  of  us  take  off 
our  hats  to  you.  I  think  we  should  all  like  to 
send  you  every  morning  a  little  bunch  of  violets, 
or  something  equally  valueless,  but  symbolic  of 
the  fine  things  you  have  given  us,  of  the  silver 
lining  you  have  disclosed  to  us  in  these  •over- 
clouded days. 


VODKA  AND  VAGABONDS     ' 

Last  year  London  lost  two  of  Its  quaintest  char- 
acters— Robertson,  of  Australia,  that  pathetic 
old  man  who  haunted  the  Strand  and  carried  in 
his  hat  a  clumsily  scrawled  card  announcing  that 
he  was  searching  for  his  errant  daughter,  and 
"  Please  Do  Not  Give  Me  Money  " ;  and  "  Spring 
Onions,"  the  Thames  Police  Court  poet. 

Now  the  race  of  London  freaks  seems  ended. 
Craig,  the  poet  of  the  Oval  Cricket  ground;  Spiv 
Bagster;  the  Chiswick  miser;  Onions  and  Robert- 
son; all  are  gone.  Hunnable  is  confined;  and  G. 
N.  Curzon  isn't  looking  any  too  well.  Even  that 
prolific  poet,  Rowbotham,  self-styled  "  the  mod- 
ern Homer,"  has  been  keeping  quiet  lately.  It 
took  a  universal  war,  though,  to  make  him  nod. 

I  met  "Spring"  (privately,  Mr.  W.  G. 
Waters)  once  or  twice  at  Stepney.  He  was  a 
vagrant  minstrel  of  the  long  line  of  Villon  and 
Cyrano  de  Bergerac.  His  anniversary  odes  were 
known  to  thousands  of  newspaper  readers.  He 
was  the  self-appointed  Laureate   of  the  nation. 

89 


go  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

He  celebrated  not  only  himself,  his  struggles  and 
successes,  but  the  pettier  happenings  of  the  day, 
such  as  the  death  of  a  king,  the  accession  of  a 
king,  or  the  marriage  of  some  royal  couple.  You 
remember  his  lines  on  the  Coronation  of  Edward 
VII:— 

The  King,  His  Majesty,  and  may  him  Heaven  bless, 

He  don't  put  no  side  on  in  his  dress. 

For,  though  he  owns  castles  and  palaces  and  houses. 

He  wears,  just  like  you  and  me,  coats  and  waistcoats  and  trousis. 

The  character  of  the  genial  Edward  in  four  lines. 
Could  it  have  been  better  said? 

Not  to  know  Spring  argues  yourself  unknown. 
He  might  have  stepped  from  the  covers  of  Dek- 
ker's  Gull's  Hornbook.  He  was  a  child  of  na- 
ture. I  can't  bring  myself  to  believe  that  he  was 
born  of  woman.  I  believe  the  fairies  must  have 
left  him  under  the  gooseberry — no,  under  the 
laurel  bush,  for  he  wore  the  laurel,  the  myrtle, 
and  the  bay  as  one  born  to  them.  He  also,  on  oc- 
casion, wore  the  vine-leaf;  and  surely  that  is  now 
an  honour  as  high  as  the  laurel,  since  all  good 
fellowship  and  kindliness  and  conviviality  have 
been  sponged  from  our  social  life.  We  have  been 
made  (lull  and  hang-dog  by  law.  I  wonder  what 
Spring  would  have   said  about  that  law  in  his 


VODKA  AND  VAGABONDS  91 

unregenerate  days — Spring,  who  was  "  In  "  thirty- 
nine  times  for  "  D.  and  D."  He  would  have 
written  a  poem  about  it,  I  know:  a  poem  that 
would  have  rung  through  the  land,  and  have 
brought  to  camp  the  numerous  army  of  Boltlsts, 
Thresholdlsts,  and  Snortlsts. 

Oh,  Spring  has  been  one  of  the  boys  .in  his 
time,  believe  me.  But  In  his  latter  years  he  was 
dull  and  virtuous;  he  kept  the  pledge  of  teetotal- 
ism  for  sixteen  years,  teetotalism  meaning  absten- 
tion from  alcoholic  liquors.  This  doesn't  mean 
that  he  wasn't  like  all  other  teetotalers,  some- 
times drunk.  The  pious  sages  who  make  our  by- 
laws seem  to  forget  that  It  Is  as  easy  to  get  drunk 
on  tea  and  coffee  as  on  beer;  the  only  difference 
being  that  beer  makes  you  pleasantly  drunk,  and 
tea  and  coffee  make  you  miserably  drunk. 

If  you  knew  Spring  in  the  old  days,  you 
wouldn't  have  known  him  towards  the  end — and 
I  don't  suppose  he  would  have  known  you.  For 
in  his  old  age  he  was  a  Person.  He  was  odd  mes- 
senger at  Thames  Police  Court.  In  November, 
1898  Spring,  who  was  then  the  local  reprobate, 
took  to  heart  the  kindly  abmonltions  of  Sir  John 
Dickinson,  then  magistrate  at  Thames,  and 
signed  the  pledge  of  total  abstinence.    Ever  after- 


92  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

wards,  on  the  anniversary  of  that  great  day, 
Spring  would  hand  to  the  magistrate  a  poem  in 
celebration  of  the  fact  that  he  had  "  kept  off  it " 
for  another  year. 

I  visited  Spring  just  before  his  death  in  his 
lodging — lodging  stranger  than  that  of  any 
Montmartre  poet. 

The  Thames  Police  Court  is  in  Arbour  Square, 
Stepney,  and  Spring  lived  near  his  work. 
Through  many  mean  streets  I  tracked  his  dwel- 
ling, and  at  last  I  found  it.  I  climbed  flights  of 
broken  stairs  in  a  high  forbidding  house.  I  stum- 
bled over  steps  and  unexpected  turns,  and  at  last 
I  stood  with  a  puffy,  red-faced,  grey-whiskers, 
stocky  old  fellow,  in  a  candle-lit  garret  whose  one 
window  looked  over  a  furtively  noisy  court. 

It  was  probably  his  family  name  of  Waters 
that  drove  him  to  drink  in  his  youth,  since  when, 
he  has  been  known  as  the  man  who  put  the  tea  in 
"  teetotal."  In  his  room  I  noticed  a  bed  of  non- 
descript colour  and  make-up,  a  rickety  chest  of 
drawers  (in  which  he  kept  his  treasures),  two 
doubtful  chairs,  a  table,  a  basin,  and  bits  of  food 
strewn  impartially  everywhere.  A  thick,  limp 
smell  hung  over  all,  and  the  place  seemed  set 
a-jigging  by   the   flickering  light   of  the   candle. 


VODKA  AND  VAGABONDS  93 

There  I  heard  his  tale.  He  sat  on  the  safe  chair 
while  I  flirted  with  the  other. 

It  was  on  the  fortieth  occasion  that  he  yielded 
to  Sir  John  Dickinson's  remonstrances  and  signed 
the  pledge,  and  earned  the  respect  of  all  con- 
nected with  that  court  where  he  had  made  so 
many  appearances.  All  through  that  Christmas 
and  New  Year  he  had,  of  course,  a  thin  time;  it 
was  suffocating  to  have  to  refuse  the  invitation: 
"Come  on.  Spring — let's  drink  your  health!" 
But  what  did  Spring  do?  Did  he  yield?  Never. 
When  he  found  he  was  thirsty,  he  sat  down  and 
wrote  a  poem,  and  by  the  time  he  had  found  a 
rhyme  for  Burton,  the  thirst  had  passed.  Then, 
too,  everybody  took  an  interest  in  him  and  gave 
him  work  and  clothes,  and  so  on.  Oh,  yes,  it's  a 
profitable  job  being  a  reformed  vagabond  in  Step- 
ney. 

He  was  employed  on  odd  messages  and  er- 
rands for  the  staff  at  Thames  Police  Court,  and 
visited  the  police-stations  round  about  to  do  simi- 
lar errands,  such  as  buying  breakfast  for  the  un- 
fortunates who  have  been  locked  up  all  night 
and  are  about  to  face  the  magistrate.  Whatever 
an  overnight  prisoner  wants  in  the  way  of  food 
he  may  have  (intoxicants  barred),  if  he  cares  to 


94  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

pay  for  it,  and  Spring  was  the  agile  fellow  who 
fetched  it  for  him;  and  many  stray  coppers 
(money,  not  policemen)  came  his  way. 

All  these  things  he  told  me  as  I  sat  in  his  me- 
phitic  lodging.  Spring,  like  his  brother  Villon,  was 
a  man  of  all  trades;  no  job  was  too  "  odd  "  for 
him  to  take  on.  Holding  horses,  taking  messages 
from  court  to  station,  writing  odes  on  this  and 
that,  opening  and  shutting  doors,  and  dashing 
about  in  his  eightieth  year  just  like  a  newsboy — 
Spring  was  certainly  a  credit  to  Stepney.  On  my 
mentioning  that  I  myself  made  songs  at  times,  he 
dashed  off  the  following  impromptu,  as  I  was  fall- 
mg  down  his  crazy  stairs  at  midnight: — 

Oh,  how  happy  we  all  should  be, 
If  none  of  us  ever  drank  anything  stronger  than  tea. 
For  how  can  a  man  hope  to  write  a  beautiful  song 
When  he  is  hanging  round  the  public-houses  all  day  long? 

"  Spring  Onions  "  apart,  Stepney  is  a  home  for 
all  manner  of  queer  characters,  full  of  fire  and 
salt;  from  Peter  the  Painter,  of  immortal  mem- 
ory, to  those  odd-job  men  who  live  well  by  being 
Jacks  of  all  trades,  and  masters  of  them,  too. 

There  are  my  good  friends,  Johnny,  the  scav- 
enger, Mr.  'Opkinson,  the  cat's-meat  man,  'Erb, 
the  boney,  Fat  Fred,  who  keeps  the  baked-potato 


VODKA  AND  VAGABONDS  95 

can,  and  that  lovable  personality  "  My  Uncle 
Toby,"  gate-man  at  one  of  the  docks. 

There's  'Grace,  too,  the  minder.  Ever  met 
him?  Ever  employed  him?  Probably  not,  but 
if  you  live  near  any  poor  market-place,  and  ever 
have  occasion  for  his  services,  I  cordially  recom- 
mend him. 

'Grace  is  the  best  minder  east  of  the  Pump. 
What  does  he  mind?  Your  business,  not  his. 
Haven't  you  ever  seen  him  at  it  in  the  more 
homely  quarters?  At  a  penny  a  time,  it's  good 
hunting;  and  'Grace  is  the  only  man  I  know  who 
blesses  certain  recent  legislation. 

His  profession  sprang  from  the  Children  Act, 
which  debarred  parents  from  taking  children  into 
public-houses.  Now,  there  are  thousands  of  re- 
spectable couples  who  like  to  have  a  quiet — or 
even  a  noisy — drink  on  market-night;  and  the  ef- 
fect of  the  Act  was  that  they  had  to  go  in  singly, 
one  taking  a  drink  while  the  other  stood  outside 
and  held  the  baby. 

There  was  'Grace's  opportunity,  and  he  took 
it.  Why  not  let  father  and  mother  take  their 
drink  together,  while  'Grace  sang  lullabies  to  his 
Majesty? 

Admirable  idea.    It  caught  on,  for  'Grace  has  a 


96  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

way  with  babies.  He  can  talk  baby  guff  by  the 
hour,  and  in  the  whole  of  his  professional  career 
he  has  never  had  to  mind  a  baby  that  did  not 
"  take  "  to  him  on  sight. 

The  fee  is  frequently  more  than  a  penny.  If 
the  old  dad  wants  to  stay  for  a  bit,  he  will  stand 
'Grace  a  drink  (under  the  rose)  and  a  pipe  of 
'baccy.  Sundays  and  holidays  are  his  best  days. 
He  selects  his  public-house,  on  the  main  road 
always,  and  works  it  all  day.  Often  he  has  five 
or  six  kiddies  at  a  time  to  protect;  and  he  gave 
me  a  private  tip  towards  success  as  a  "  minder  "  : 
always  carry  a  number  of  bright  things  in  your 
pockets — nails,  pearl  buttons,  bits  of  coloured 
chalk,  or,  best  of  all,  a  piece  of  putty. 

Outside  his  regular  pitch,  the  public-house  owns 
a  horse-trough,  but  as  no  horses  now  draw  up, 
the  trough  is  dry,  and  in  this  he  places  his  half- 
dozen  or  so  proteges,  out  of  danger  and  as  happy 
as  you  please. 

Then  there's  Artie,  the  copper's  nark.  What 
shall  be  said  of  Artie?  Shall  I  compare  him  to  a 
summer's  day?  No,  I  think  not;  rather  to  a  cob- 
webbed  Stepney  twilight.  I  don't  commend  Artie. 
Indeed,  I  have  as  little  regard  for  him  as  I  have 
for    those    poisonous    weeds   that    float    on    the 


VODKA  AND  VAGABONDS  97 

Thames  near  Greenwich  at  flood.  He  is  a  thor- 
oughly disagreeable  person,  with  none  of  the  acid 
qualities  of  the  really  bad  man  or  the  firelight 
glow  of  commonplace  sinners  like  ourselves.  He 
is  incapable  of  following  any  other  calling.  He 
has  been,  from  boyhood,  mixed  up  with  criminal 
gangs,  but  he  has  not  the  backbone  necessary  for 
following  them  on  their  enterprises.  Always  he 
has  wanted  to  feel  safe;  so  he  cringes  at  the  feet 
of  officialism.  He  is  hated  by  all — by  the  boys 
whose  games  he  springs  and  by  the  unscrupulous 
police  who  employ  him.  His  rewards  are  small: 
a  few  pence  now  and  then,  an  occasional  drink, 
and  a  tolerant  eye  towards  his  own  little  misbe- 
havlngs. 

Often  the  police  are  puzzled  as  to  how  Artie 
gets  his  information.  If  you  were  to  ask  him,  he 
would  become  Orientally  impassive. 

"  Ah,  you'd  like  to  know,  wouldn't  yer?  " 
But  the  truth  Is  that  he  does  not  himself  know. 
In  a  poor  district — Walworth,  Hoxton,  or  Not- 
ting  Dale — everybody  talks;  and  it  Is  in  these  dis- 
tricts that  Artie  works.  He  is  useless  in  big  crim- 
inal affairs;  he  can  only  gather  and  report  Infor- 
mation on  the  petty  doings  of  his  associates.  The 
moment  any  small  burglary  is  planned,   two  or 


98  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

three  people  know  about  It,  for  the  small  burglar 
is  always  maladroit  and  ill-instructed  in  his 
methods,  and  is  bound  to  confide  in  some  one. 
Artie  is  always  about  like  a  pedatory  bird  to 
snatch  up  crumbs  of  other  people's  business. 

Are  you  married,  and  were  you  married  at  a 
Registry  Office?  If  so,  it's  certain  that  you've 
met  my  dear  old  friend,  Stepney  Syd,  the  Con- 
gratulator,  one  of  our  most  earnest  war-workers; 
as  "  unwearied  "  as  Lady  Dardy  DInkum. 

Congratulations,  spoken  at  the  right  moment, 
in  the  right  way,  to  the  right  people,  are  a  paying 
proposition.  The  war  has  made  no  difference  in 
the  value  of  those  mellifluous  syllables,  unless  it 
be  in  an  upward  direction.  It's  a  soft  job,  too. 
Syd  never  works  after  three  In  the  afternoon. 
He  cannot,  because  his  work  is  the  concluding 
touch  to  the  marriage  service.  It  consists  In 
hanging  about  registry-offices — that  in  Covent 
Garden  is  very  popular  with  young  people  in  a 
hurry — and  waiting  until  a  cab  arrives  with  pros- 
pective bride  and  bridegroom.  When  they  leave, 
Syd  is  there  to  open  the  door  for  them,  and  re- 
spectfully offer  felicitations;  and  so  fatuous  and 
helpless  is  man  when  he  has  taken  a  woman  for 
life  that  he  dare  not  ignore  this  happy  omen. 


VODKA  AND  VAGABONDS  99 

Thus,  Syd  comes  home  every  time  on  a  good 
thing,  and,  by  careful  watching  of  the  weekly 
papers  in  the  Free  Library,  and  putting  two  and 
two  together,  he  contrives,  like  some  of  our  politi- 
cians, to  anticipate  events,  and  to  be  where  the 
good  things  are. 

Strolling  round  Montagu  Street  the  other 
night,  I  met,  in  one  of  the  little  Russian  cafes,  a 
man  who  pitched  me  a  tale  of  woe — a  lean,  fer- 
rety little  man,  with  ferrety  eyes  and  fingers  that 
urged  me  to  button  my  overcoat  and  secure  all 
pockets. 

But  I  was  shocked  to  discover  that  he  was  an 
honest  man.  Diamonds  and  honesty  seldom  walk 
hand-in-hand,  and  precious  stones  and  virtue  do 
not  yet  publicly  kiss  each  other;  and  he  talked  so 
much  of  diamonds  that  my  first  apprehensions 
were  perhaps  justified.  I  learnt,  however,  that 
his  was  a  sad  case.  He  was  a  diamond-cutter  by 
trade,  and  in  those  war  days  one  might  as  use- 
fully have  diamonds  in  Amsterdam  (as  Maudi 
Darrell's  song  went)  as  have  them  in  London. 

I  had  not  before  met  a  man  who  so  casually 
juggled  with  the  symbols  of  revue-girlhood,  so 
I  bought  him  some  more  vodka  and  tea-and- 
lemon,   and  led  him  on  to  talk.     Stones  to  the 


lOo     OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

value  of  £20,000  passed  through  his  hands  every 
day,  but  none  of  them  stuck.  This  fact  greatly 
refreshed  my  dimming  faith  in  human  nature, 
until  he  qualified  it  by  adding  that  it  wasn't  worth 
a  cutter's  while  to  steal.  Every  worker  in  the 
trade  is  known  to  every  branch,  and  he  would 
have  no  second  chance. 

Apprenticeship  to  the  trade  of  diamond-cutting 
costs  £200:  and,  once  out  of  his  indentures,  the 
apprentice  must  join  the  Union,  for  it  would  be 
useless  for  him,  however  proficient  in  his  business, 
to  attempt  to  obtain  a  post  without  his  Union 
ticket. 

The  diamond-mechanic  earns  anything  from 
£3  to  £8  per  week.  The  work  calls  for  a  very 
considerable  knowledge  of  the  characters  of 
stones,  for  very  deft  fingers,  and  for  exception- 
ally shrewd  judgment;  since  every  diamond  or 
brilliant,  however  minute,  has  sixty-four  facets, 
each  of  which  has  to  be  made  and  polished  on  a 
lathe. 

The  stones  are  handed  out  in  the  workshop 
practically  haphazard,  and  in  the  event  of  the 
loss  of  a  stone,  no  disturbance  is  caused.  The 
staff  simply  look  for  it;  the  floor  of  the  shop  is 
swept  up  with  a  fine  broom,  and  the  dust  sifted 


VODKA  AND  VAGABONDS  loi 

until  it  is  found.  The  explanation  of  this  laxity 
is  the  International  Diamond  Cutters'  Union. 

In  the  process  of  diamond-cutting,  of  course, 
the  stone  loses  about  60  per  cent,  of  its  weight; 
and  the  cutter  told  me  that  the  fillings  that  come 
from  the  stone,  mixed  with  the  oil  of  the  lathe, 
make  the  finest  lubricant  for  a  razor-strop.  The 
making  of  his  smooth  cheeks  was  the  perfect 
razor  sharpened  with  diamond  filings! 

Before  we  parted,  he  showed  me  casually  a 
green  diamond.  This  is  the  most  rare  form  of 
stone,  and  there  are  only  six  known  examples  in 
the  world.  No,  he  didn't  steal  it.  It  had  just 
been  handed  to  him  for  setting,  and  he  was  carry- 
ing it  in  his  waistcoat-pocket  in  the  careless  man- 
ner of  all  stone-dealers. 

After  he  and  a  sure  thousand  pounds  had  van- 
ished into  the  night,  I  sat  for  awhile  in  the  cafe 
listening  to  the  chatter  of  the  cigarette-girls  of 
the  quarter. 

It  was  all  of  war.  Of  Stefan,  who  had  been  re- 
patriated; of  Abramovitch,  who  had  evaded  ser- 
vice by  bolting  to  Ireland  with  a  false  green  form 
for  which  he  had  paid  £100;  of  Sergius,  who  had 
been  hiding  in  a  cellar. 

When  one  thinks  of  cigarette-girls  one  thinks  at 


I02  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

once  of  Marion  Crawford's  Cigarette-maker' s 
Romance  and  of  Martin  Harvey's  super-senti- 
mental performance  in  that  play,  so  dear  to  the 
Streatham  flapper.  But  Sonia  Karavitch,  though 
soaked  in  the  qualities  of  her  race — dark,  beauty, 
luxurious  curls,  brooding  temper,  and  spiritual 
melancholy — would,  I  fear,  repel  those  who  only 
know  her  under  the  extravagantly  refining  rays  of 
the  limelight.  But  those  who  love  humanity  in 
the  raw  will  love  her. 

Sonia  Karavitch  is  seventeen.  She  wears  a 
black  frock,  with  many  sprigs  of  red  ribbon  at 
her  neck  and  in  her  raven  hair.  Her  fingers  are 
stained  brown  with  tobacco;  but,  though  she  has 
heavy  eyes  and  lounges  languorously,  like  a 
drowsy  cat  in  the  sunshine,  she  works  harder  than 
most  other  factory-girls. 

From  six  o'clock  in  the  morning  until  eight 
o'clock  at  night  she  is  at  her  table,  rolling  by  the 
thousand  those  hand-made  cigarettes  which  com- 
mand big  prices  in  Piccadilly.  When  she  speaks 
she  has  a  lazy  voice  with  a  curious  lisp,  and  it  is 
full  of  sadness. 

Yet  she  is  not  sad.  She  has  a  pleasant  little 
home  in  one  of  the  big  tenements,  where  she  lives 
with  her  mother  and  little  brother,  and,  in  her 


VODKA  AND  VAGABONDS  103 

own  demonstrative  way,  is  happy.  The  harder 
she  works,  the  more  money  there  is  for  luxuries 
for  the  Httle  brother.  Often  of  an  evening  her 
friends  come  home  with  her,  and  drink  tea-and- 
lemon  with  her,  and  make  music. 

Sonia  Karavitch  is  very  shy,  and  never  mixes 
with  the  folk  who  are  not  of  her  own  colony. 
She  was  born  in  Stepney  of  Russian  parents,  and 
she  never  goes  out  of  Stepney.  And  why  should 
she?  For  in  the  half-dozen  streets  where  she 
lives  her  daily  life  she  can  speak  the  language 
of  her  parents,  can  buy  clothes  such  as  her  mother 
wore  in  Odessa,  and  can  find  all  those  little 
touches  that  mean  home  to  the  homeless  or  the 
exiled. 

Every  morning  she  goes  straight  to  the  factory; 
at  noon  she  goes  home  to  dinner;  and  in  the  eve- 
ning she  goes  straight  home  again.  Sometimes  on 
Saturday  afternoons — which  is  her  Sunday,  for 
Sonia  is  of  Jewish  faith — she  takes  a  walk  in 
Whitechapel  High  Street,  because,  you  see,  there 
is  much  life  in  Whitechapel  High  Street;  there  are 
her  compatriots,  and  there  are  street-organs,  and 
violets  are  a  penny  a  bunch. 

When  she  has  had  a  good  week  she  sometimes 
takes  her  mother  and  brother  for  kvass  to  one  of 


I04     OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

the  many  Russian  restaurants  in  Osborn  Street 
and  Little  Montagu  Street. 

Sometimes  you  see  Sonia  Karavitch  at  a  table, 
sipping  her  tea,  and  listening  to  the  talk,  and  you 
may  wonder  why  that  sad,  far-away  look  in  her 
eyes.  She  is  not  in  Stepney.  Her  soul  has  flown 
to  her  native  land — to  the  steppes,  to  the  cold  airs 
of  Russia,  whither  a  certain  Russian  lad,  who  used 
to  work  by  her  side  in  the  cigarette  factory  in 
Osborn  Street,  was  dispatched  by  a  repatriation 
order. 

But  then  she  remembers  mother  and  little 
brother,  and  stops  her  dreamings,  and  hurries  on 
to  work. 

Many  wild  folk  have  sat  in  these  cafes  and 
discoursed  on  the  injustices  of  civilization;  and  at 
one  time  private  presses  in  the  neighbourhood  gave 
forth  inflammatory  sheets  bearing  messages  from 
international  warriors  in  the  cause  of  freedom. 

If  ever  you  are  tired  of  the  solemn  round  of 
existence,  don't  take  a  holiday  at  the  seaside, 
don't  go  to  the  war.  Edit  an  anarchist  news-sheet, 
and  your  life  will  be  full  of  quick  perils  and 
alarms. 

Another  of  my  Stepney  friends  is  Jane,  the 
flower-girl,  who  tramps  every  day  from  Stepney 


VODKA  AND  VAGABONDS  105 

to  Covent  Garden,  and  sells  her  stock  from  a 
pitch  near  Leicester  Square.  Here's  another 
ardent  war-worker. 

Some  worthy  people  may  not  think  that  tht 
selling  of  violets  comes  properly  under  the  fine 
exclusive  label  of  War  Work;  but  these  are  the 
neurotics  whose  only  idea  of  doing  their  bit  is  that 
of  twisting  their  soiling  fingers  about  anything 
that  carries  a  message  of  grace;  who  fume  at  a 
young  man  because  he  isn't  in  khaki,  and,  when 
he  is  in  uniform,  kill  him  with  a  look  because  he 
isn't  in  hospital  blue,  and,  when  he  is  in  hospital, 
regard  him  askance  because  he  isn't  eager  to  go 
back. 

"  Flowers !  "  they  snort  or  wheeze.  "  Fiddling 
with  flowers  in  war-time !  It  ought  to  be  stopped. 
Look  at  the  waste  of  labour.  Look  at  the  press 
on  transport.  Will  the  people  never  realize," 
etc. 

Yet,  good  troglodytes,  because  the  world  is  at 
war,  shall  we  then  wipe  from  the  earth  every- 
thing that  links  us,  however  lightly,  to  God — and 
save  Germany  the  trouble?  Must  everything  be 
lead  and  steel?  Old  Man — dost  thou  think,  be- 
cause thou  art  old,  that  glory  and  loveliness  have 
passed  away  with  the  corroding  of  thy  bones? 


io6     OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

Nay,  youth  shall  still  take  or  make  its  pleasure; 
fair  girls  shall  still  adorn  their  limbs  with  silks, 
and  flowers  shall  still  be  sweet  to  the  nose. 

Old  Man — on  many  occasions  when  I  could  get 
no  food — not  even  war-bread — the  sight  and 
smell  of  bunches  of  violets  have  furnished  suste- 
nance for  mind  and  body.  So  fill  thy  belly,  if 
thou  wilt,  with  the  waxy  potato;  put  the  Army 
cheese  where  the  soldier  puts  the  pudding;  shovel 
into  thy  mouth  the  frozen  beef  and  offal  that  may 
renew  thy  energies  for  further  war-work;  but,  if 
there  be  any  grace  of  God  still  left  in  thee,  if 
there  be  any  virtue,  any  charity — leave,  for 
those  who  are  shielding  thy  senescent  body,  the 
flower-girls  about  Piccadilly  Circus  on  a  May 
morning. 

"Vi'lerts!     Swee' Vi'lerts!   Pennyer  bunch !  " 

Good  morning,  Jane !  How  sweet  you  and 
your  violets  look  in  the  tangle  of  trafl'ic  that  laces 
and  interlaces  itself  about  Alfred  Gilbert's 
Mercury. 

Morning  by  morning,  fair  or  foggy,  she  stands 
by  the  fountain;  and  if  you  give  her  more  than  a 
passing  glance  you  will  note  that  her  tumbled  hair 
is  of  just  the  right  shade  of  red,  and  in  her  eyes 
are  the  very  violets  that  she  holds  to  your  indiffer- 


VODKA  AND  VAGABONDS  107 

ent  nose,  and  under  her  lucent  skin  beat  the  im- 
perious pulses  of  youth. 

Jane  is  fourteen,  and  Jane  is  always  smiling;  not 
because  she  is  fourteen,  but  because  it's  such  fun 
to  be  alive  and  to  be  selling  flowers.  Indeed,  she 
looks  herself  like  a  little  posy,  sweet  and  demure. 
Times  may  be  bad,  but  they  are  not  reflected  in 
Jane's  appearance. 

Of  education  she  has  only  what  the  Council 
School  gave  her  in  the  odd  hours  when  she  choose 
to  attend;  of  religion  she  has  none,  but  she  has  a 
philosophy  of  her  own,  which,  in  a  sentence,  is 
To  Get  All  The  Fun  You  Can  Out  of  Things. 

That's  why  Jane's  smile  is  a  smile  that  certain 
people  look  for  every  morning  as  they  alight  from 
their  bus  in  the  Circus.  But  you  must  not  imagine 
that  Jane  is  good  in  the  respectable  sense  of  the 
word.  Let  anyone  annoy  her,  or  try  to  "  dish  " 
her  of  one  of  her  customers.  Then,  when  it  comes 
to  back-chat,  Jane  can  more  than  hold  her  own 
in  the  matter  of  language;  and  once  I  saw  an 
artillery  officer's  face  turn  livid  during  a  discus- 
sion between  her  and  a  rival  flower-girl. 

The  war  has  hit  Jane  very  badly.  The  young 
bloods  who  frequented  her  stall  in  the  old  days, 
and  bought  the  most  expensive  buttonholes  every 


io8     OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

morning,  are  now  in  khaki,  and  a  thoughtless 
Army  Order  forbids  an  officer  to  decorate  his 
tunic  with  a  spray  of  carnations  or  a  moss-rose. 

There  are  only  the  old  bounders  remaining, 
and  their  custom  depends  so  much  on  such  a  num- 
ber of  things — the  morning's  news,  the  fact  that 
they  are  not  ten  years  younger,  the  weather,  and 
the  state  of  their  digestions. 

Jane  always  reads  the  paper  before  she  starts 
work,  because,  as  she  says,  then  you  know  what  to 
expect.  She  doesn't  believe  in  meeting  trouble 
halfway,  but  she  believes  in  being  prepared  for  it. 
When  there's  good  news,  stout  old  gentlemen  will 
buy  a  bunch  of  violets  for  themselves,  and  per- 
haps a  cluster  of  blossoms  for  the  typist.  But 
when  the  news  is  bad,  nobody  is  in  the  mood  for 
flowers.  They  want  to  band  themselves  together 
and  tell  one  another  how  awful  it  is;  which,  as 
Jane  says,  is  all  wrong. 

"If  they'd  only  buy  a  bunch  of  violets  and  stick 
it  in  their  coats,  other  people  would  feel  better 
by  looking  at  them,  and  they'd  forget  the  bad  news 
in  the  jolly  old  smell  in  their  buttonhole." 

Yes,  Jane's  fourteen  years  have  given  her  much 
wisdom,  and  she  is  doing  as  fine  war-work  as  any 
admiral  or  field-marshal. 


VODKA  AND  VAGABONDS  109 

While  in  Stepney  we  mustn't  forget  good  Mrs. 
Joplin.  Mrs.  Joplin  lives  up  a  narrow  court  of 
menacing  aspect,  and  in  her  window  is  a  printed 
card,  bearing  the  cryptic  legend — "  Mangling 
Done  Here  " — which,  to  an  American  friend  of 
mine,  suggested  that  atrocities  of  a  German  kind 
were  going  on  downstairs.  But  I  calmed  his  fears 
by  assuring  him  that  Mrs.  Joplin's  business  card 
was  a  simple  indication  of  her  willingness  to  re- 
ceive from  her  neighbours  bundles  of  newly- 
washed  clothes,  and  put  them  through  a  machine 
called  a  mangle,  from  which  they  were  discharged 
neatly  pressed  and  folded.  The  remuneration  for 
this  service  is  usually  but  a  few  coppers — beer- 
money,  nothing  more;  so  to  procure  the  decencies 
of  existence  Mrs.  Joplin  lets  her  basement  rooms 
for — What's  that?  Yes,  I  daresay  you've  had  a 
few  pewter  half-crowns  and  florins  passed  on  you 
lately,  but  what's  that  to  do  with  me — or  Mrs. 
Joplin?  Do  you  want  me  to  suggest  that  good 
Mrs.  Joplin  is  a  twister;  a  snide-merchant?  Never 
let  It  be  said.  Good  Mrs.  Joplin,  unlike  so  many 
of  her  neighbours,  has  never  seen  the  inside  of  a 
police-court,  much  less  a  prison. 

Speaking  of  prisons,  it  was  in  Stepney  that  I 
was  told  how  to  carry  myself  if  ever  I  came  within 


no  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

the  grip  of  the  law  on  frequent  occasions.  The 
English  prison  is  not  an  establishment  to  which 
one  turns  with  anticipation  of  happiness;  but  there 
is  one  prison  which  is  as  good  as  a  home  of  rest 
for  those  suffering  from  the  pain  of  the  world. 
There  is  but  one  condition  of  eligibility:  you  must 
be  a  habitual  criminal. 

If  you  fulfilled  that  condition,  you  were  dis- 
patched to  the  Camp  Hill  Detention  Prison  in  the 
Isle  of  Wight. 

A  most  comfortable  affair,  this  Camp  Hill.  It 
stands  in  pleasant  grounds,  near  Newport;  and 
the  walls  are  not  the  grey,  scowling  things  that 
enclose  Holloway,  or  Reading,  or  Wandsworth, 
but  walls  of  warm  brown  stone,  such  as  any  good 
fellow  of  reputable  fame  might  build  about  his 
mansion.  Close-shaven  lawns  and  flower-beds 
delight  the  eye,  and  the  cells  are  roomy  apart- 
ments with  real  windows.  The  guests  do  not  dine 
in  solitude;  they  are  marched  together  to  the 
dining-hall,  and  there  nourished,  not  with  skilly 
or  stew,  with  its  hunk  of  bread  and  a  pewter  plat- 
ter, but  with  meat  and  plum-duff,  sometimes  fish, 
greenstuffs,  and  cocoa.  This,  of  course,  in  peace- 
time; the  menu  has  no  doubt  suffered  variations  in 
these  latter  days.    The  tables  are  covered.    After 


VODKA  AND  VAGABONDS  in 

the  meal  the  good  fellows  may  sit  for  a  few 
minutes  and  enjoy  a  pipe  of  tobacco,  even  as  the 
respectable  citizen.  A  fair  number  of  marks  for 
good  behaviour  carries  with  it  the  privilege  of 
smoking  after  the  night  meal  as  well,  and  one  of 
the  most  severe  punishments  is  the  docking  of 
this  smoking  privilege. 

Also,  a  canteen  is  provided.  Not  only  do  they 
wallow  in  luxury;  they  are  paid  for  it.  Two- 
pence a  day  is  given  to  each  prisoner  for  excep- 
tional conduct,  and  one  penny  of  this  may  be  spent 
at  the  canteen.  This  is  by  way  of  payment  for 
work  done — the  work  being  of  a  much  lighter 
kind  than  that  given  to  ordinary  "  second  divi- 
sion "  prisoners.  In  cases  where  conduct  fulfils 
every  expectation  of  the  authorities,  the  good  lad 
is  rewarded,  every  six  months,  with  a  stripe.  Six 
stripes  entitle  the  holder  to  a  cash  reward,  half  of 
which  he  may  spend,  the  other  half  being  banked. 
The  canteen  sells  sweets,  mineral  waters,  ciga- 
rettes, apples,  oranges,  nuts  etc.  Those  inclined 
to  the  higher  forms  of  nourishment  may  use  the 
library.  There  are  current  magazines,  novels  of 
popular  "healthy"  writers  (it  would  be  unfair 
to  give  their  names;  they  might  not  appreciate  the 
epithet),   and — uplifting  thought — the  works  of 


112  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

Spencer,  Huxley,  Darwin,  and  some  French  high- 
brows. 

On  special  occasions  bioscope  shows  of  an  edu- 
cative kind  are  given.  Oh,  I  do  love  my  virtue, 
but  I  wish  I  were  a  habitual  criminal.  Why 
wasn't  I  born  in  Stepney,  and  born  a  vagabond? 

Whether  the  prison  is  still  running  on  the  old 
lines  I  know  not.  Most  likely  the  British  habitual 
convicts  have  been  served  with  ejectment  notices 
to  make  room  for  German  prisoners.  I  wouldn't 
wonder. 


THE  KIDS'  MAN 

"  I'll  learn  yeh,  y'  little  wretch!  " 

"Oowh!    Don't— don't !  " 

The  lady,  savagely  wielding  a  decayed  carpet- 
beater,  bent  over  the  shrinking  form  of  the  child 
— a  little  storm  of  short  skirts  and  black  hair. 
Her  arm  ached  and  her  face  steamed,  but  she 
continued  to  shower  blows  wherever  she  could  get 
them  In,  until  suddenly  the  storm  limply  subsided 
Into  a  small  figure  which  doubled  up  and  fell. 

A  step  sounded  in  the  doorway,  and  the  lady 
looked  up,  frayed  at  the  edges  and  panting.  A 
small,  slight  man,  in  semi-official  dress,  stood  just 
inside  the  room,  which  gave  directly  on  to  a  byway 
of  Homerton. 

"  Na  then.  Feet — mind  yer  dirty  boots  on  my 
carpet,  cancher?    What's  the " 

"  N.S.P.C.C,"  replied  Feet.  He  stooped  over 
the  child,  lifted  her,  and  set  her  on  a  slippery 
sofa.  "  Had  my  eye  on  you  for  some  time. 
Thought  there  were  something  dicky  with  this 
child." 

"3 


114     OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

"  'Ere,  look  'ere — I  mean,  can't  'er  muvver  'it 


'er " 


"  Steady,  please.     Let  me  warn  you " 

The  lady  threatened  with  glances,  but  Kids' 
Man  met  them. 

She  fumed.  "Ow!  You  waltz  in,  do  yeh? 
Well,  strikes  me  yeh'll  waltz  out  quicker'n  yeh 
came  in.  'Ere — Arfer !  "  Her  raucous  voice 
scraped  up  the  narrow  stairway  leading  from  the 
room,  and  in  answer  came  a  misty  voice,  suggest- 
ing revelries  by  night.  The  lady  roared  again: 
"  Ar-ferr !  Get  up  an'  come  daown.  'Ere's  a 
little  swab  insultin'  yer  wife!  Kids'  Man  in- 
sultin'  yer  wife  !  " 

Kids'  Man  made  no  move,  but  stood  over  the 
sofa  with  sober  face,  ministering  to  the  heavily 
breathing  bundle.  Overhead  came  bumps  and  a 
prayer  for  delivery  from  women. 

Then  on  the  lower  step  of  the  stairway  ap- 
peared a  symbol  of  Aurora  in  velveteen  breeches 
and  a  shirt  of  indeterminate  colour.  His  braces 
hung  dolefully  at  the  rear  as  he  bleared  on  the 
situation.  His  furry  head  moved  from  side  to 
side.  "Wodyeh  want  me  t'do?" 
'•  Cosh  'im !    Insultin'  yer  wife  1  " 


THE  KIDS'  MAN  115 

He  stared.  Then  his  lip  moved  and  he  grinned. 
He  hitched  up  his  trousers,  belted  them  with 
braces,  and  expectorated  on  both  hands  with  gusto. 
"  Git  aout,  else  I'll  split  yer  faice !  " 

No  answer.  "  Righto !  "  He  descended  from 
the  stair,  and,  hands  down,  fists  closed,  chin  pro- 
truded, advanced  on  the  bending  Inspector  with 
that  slow,  insidious  movement  proper  to  street- 
fighters.  "Won't  git  aout,  woncher?  Grrr — 
yeh !  " 

Kids'  Man  looked  up  and  met  him  with  a  steady 
stare.  But  the  stare  annoyed  him,  so  he  lifted 
up  his  fist  and  smote  Kids'  Man  between  the  eyes. 
Then  things  happened.  He  towered  over  the  In- 
spector. "  Want  another?  "  The  Inspector  lifted 
a  short  and  apparently  muscleless  arm. 

Bk!  Aurora  reeled  as  the  fist  met  his  jaw, 
and  was  followed  by  a  swift  one  under  the  ear. 
For  a  moment  astonishment  seemed  to  hold  him  as 
he  bleared  at  the  slight  figure;  then  he  seemed 
about  to  burst  with  wrath;  then  he  became  a  cold 
sportsman.     The  wife  screamed  for  aid. 

"  Aoutside — come  on !  "  He  shoved  Kids' 
Man  before  him  into  the  walk,  which,  torpid  a 
moment  ago,  now  flashed  with  life  and  movement. 


ii6     OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

Quickly  the  auditorium  was  filled  with  a  moist, 
unlovely  crowd  of  sloppy  rags  and  towzled  heads. 
While  Kids'  Man  ministered  to  his  nose,  Arfer 
hitched  his  trousers,  fingered  his  shirt-sleeves,  and 
talked  in  staccato  to  his  seconds,  about  a  dozen  in 
number.  The  crowd  grunted  and  grinned.  It 
seemed  evident  that  Kids'  Man  was  about  to  get 
it  in  the  neck.  One  or  two  went  to  his  side  as 
he  quietly  turned  back  his  sleeves,  not  for  purposes 
of  encouragement,  but  merely  in  order  to  preserve 
the  correct  niceties  of  the  scrap. 

A  light  tap  on  the  body  from  either  party,  and 
then  more  things  happened.  "  Go  it,  Arfer,  flat- 
ten 'im !  Cosh  'im  !  Rip  'im  back,  Arfer.  Give 
'im  naughty-naughty,  Arfer !  " 

But,  as  the  crowd  scraped  and  shuffled  this 
way  and  that,  they  gave  a  panicky  clearing  to  a 
spry  retreat  by  Kids'  Man.  He  was  done  for; 
Arfer  was  chasing  him.  They  capered  and  chi- 
iked.  Then,  with  a  smart  turn,  he  landed  beauti- 
fully on  the  point,  and  sent  the  pursuing  Arfer 
flat  to  the  ground.  The  crowd  murmured  and 
oathfully  exhorted  Arfer  to  fink  what  he  was 
doin'  of.  Flatten  the  Kids'  Man — that  was  his 
job.  They  met  again,  and  this  time  the  Society 
received  one  on  the  mouth  and  another  on  the 


THE  KIDS'  MAN  117 

nose.  He  sat  heavily  down,  and  his  seconds 
flashed  wet  handkerchiefs.  The  crowd  cheered. 
'"Ad  enough?" 

But  with  a  sudden  spurt  he  came  up  again.  His 
right  landed  on  Arfer's  nose,  a  natty  upper-cut 
followed  it.  He  got  in  another  with  his  right, 
and  pressed  his  man.  The  lady  screamed,  and 
disregarding  the  ethics  of  the  ring,  splurged  in 
and  seized  the  Society's  coat-tails.  But  the  crowd 
begged  her  to  desist.  Then  the  child,  who,  with 
the  toughness  of  her  class,  had  found  her  legs 
again,  flitted  fearfully  about  the  fringe  of  the 
crowd. 

"  Wade  in,  mister !  'It  the  old  woman — fetch 
'er  a  swipe  across  the  snitch!  " 

Now  Kids'  Man  began  to  take  an  interest  in 
the  affair.  Dodging  a  swinging  blow  of  his  lum- 
bering opponent,  he  got  in  a  half-arm  jab.  They 
closed,  and  embraced  each  other,  and  swayed, 
and  the  crowd  chanted  "  Dear  Old  Pals."  For  a 
moment  they  strained;  then  Kids'  Man  lifted  his 
enemy  bodily  held  him,  and  with  a  peculiar  twist 
dropped  him.     He  lay  still.   .   .   . 

A  murmur  of  wonder  swelled  quickly  to  a  broad 
roar.  The  crowd  surged  in,  squirming  and  hus- 
tling.    For  a  moment  it  seemed  that  Kids'  Man 


ii8  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

would  get  torn.  It  was  just  a  halr's-breadth 
question  between  lynching^  and  triumphal  chair- 
ing. The  sporting  spirit  prevailed,  and:  "  Raaay ! 
Good  on  yeh,  mate!  Well  done  th'  S'ciety!  " 
The  lads  swung  in  and  gathered  admiringly 
around  the  victor,  who  tenderly  caressed  a  dam- 
aged beetroot  of  a  face,  while  half  a  dozen  help- 
ers impeded  each  other's  efforts  to  render  first 
aid  to  the  prostrate  Arfer. 

"  Where's  the  blankey  twicer?  Lemme  git  'old 
of  'im.  Lemme  git  'old  of  'im!  "  implored  the 
lady.  But  she  was  no  longer  popular,  and  they 
hustled  her  aside,  so  that  in  impotent  rage  she 
smote  her  prostrate  husband  with  her  foot  for 
failing  to  uphold  her  honour  before  a  measly  little 
Kids'  Man  what  she  could  have  torn  in  two  wiv 
one  hand. 

"Well,  'e's  gotter  nerve,   ain't  'e?" 

"  Firs'  chap  ever  I  knew  stand  up  t'old  Arfer. 
Fac' !  " 

"  Yerce — 'e's — e's  gotter  nerve  !  " 

*'  Tell  yeh  what  I  say,  boys — three  cheers  for 
th'  Kids'  Man!" 

And  as  the  bruised  and  discoloured  Kids'  Man 
gripped  the  hand  of  Orphan  Dora  and  led  her, 
brave  with  new  importance,   from  the  Walk  to 


THE  KIDS'  MAN  119 

Headquarters,   a   round  of  beery  cheering  made 
sweet  music  in  their  rear. 

"  Well,  fancy  a  little  chap  like  that.  .  .  .Well, 
'e's  gotter  blasted  nerve!  " 

4:  ^  ^  4^  3|C 

The  Kids'  Man.  That  is  his  title — used  some- 
times affectionately  and  sometimes  bitterly.  He 
is  the  children's  champion,  and  often  he  is  met 
with  curses,  and  that  plea  of  parenthood  which 
is  supposed  to  justify  all  manner  of  gross  and 
unnameable  abominations:  "Can't  a  farver  do 
what  he  likes  wiv  his  own  child?  " 

The  Society  employs  two  hundred  and  fifty 
Inspectors,  whose  work  is  to  watch  over  the  wel- 
fare of  the  children  in  their  allotted  district.  But, 
since  most  ill-treatment  takes  place  behind  closed 
doors,  it  is  difficult  for  an  outsider  to  obtain  direct 
evidence,  and  neighbours,  even  when  they  know 
that  children  are  being  starved  and  daily  tortured, 
are  shy  of  lodging  information,  lest  it  may  lead  to 
the  publicity  of  the  police-court  and  the  news- 
papers, and  subsequently  to  open  permanent  en- 
mity from  the  people  next  whom  they  have  to 
live. 

The  Kids'  Man  is  usually  an  old  Army  or 
Navy  man,  accustomed  to  making  himself  heard, 


120     OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

and  able  to  hold  his  own.  The  chief  qualities  for 
such  a  post  are:  a  real  love  of  children;  tact  and 
knowledge  of  men;  and  ability  to  deal  with  a  hos- 
tile reception.  It  is  by  no  means  pleasant,  as  you 
have  seen,  to  pay  a  warning  visit  to  a  house  up  a 
narrow  alley,  whose  inhabitants  form  something 
of  a  clan  or  freemasonry  lodge. 

The  motto  of  the  Society,  however,  is  persua- 
sion. Prosecutions  are  extremely  distasteful,  and 
are  only  used  when  all  other  means  have  failed. 
In  any  case  that  comes  to  the  Inspector's  knowl- 
edge, his  first  thought  is  the  children's  well-being. 
If  they  are  being  starved,  he  provides  them  with 
food,  clothes,  bedding  and  baths,  or  sees  that  the 
parish  does  so  without  any  of  the  delays  incident 
to  parish  charity.  Then  he  has  a  quiet  talk  with 
the  parents,  and  gives  a  warning.  Usually  this  is 
enough.  In  cases  where  the  neglect  is  due  to  lack 
of  work,  he  is  sometimes  an  employment  agency, 
and  finds  work  for  the  father.  But,  if  necessary, 
there  are  more  warnings,  and  then,  with  great 
reluctance,  an  appearance  in  court  is  called  for. 

Cruelty  is  of  two  kinds — active  and  passive. 
The  passive  cruelty  is  the  cruelty  of  neglect — 
lack  of  proper  food,  clothing,  sanitation,  etc.  The 
other  kind — the  active  cruelty  of  a  diabolical  na- 


THE  KIDS'  MAN  12  r 

ture — comes  curiously  enough,  not  so  much  from 
the  lower,  but  from  the  upper  classes.  It  is  sel- 
dom that  the  rough  navvy  is  deliberately  cruel  to 
his  children;  but  Inspectors  can  tell  you  some 
appalling  stories  of  torture  inflicted  on  children  by 
leisured  people  of  means  and  breeding.  Among 
their  convictions  are  doctors,  lawyers,  clergymen, 
and  many  women  of  position. 

There  was  one  terrible  case  of  a  woman  in 
county  society — you  will  remember  her  Cornish 
name — who  had  been  guilty  of  atrocious  cruelty 
to  a  little  girl  of  twelve.  The  Kids'  Man  called. 
The  woman  maintained  that  a  mother  had  a  per- 
fect right  to  correct  her  own  child.  She  called 
the  child  and  fondled  it  to  prove  that  rumour  of 
tortures  was  wrong.  But  the  Kids'  Man  knows 
children;  and  the  look  in  the  child's  eyes  told  him 
of  terrorizing.  He  demanded  a  medical  exami-' 
nation. 

The  case  was  proved  in  court.  A  verdict  of 
"  Guilty  "  was  given.  And  the  punishment  for 
this  fair  degenerate — £50  fine !  The  punishment 
for  the  Kids'  Man  was  a  kind  of  social  ostracism. 
There  lies  the  difficulty  of  the  work.  The 
woman's  position  had  saved  her. 

The  Kids'  Man  needs  to  have  his  eyes  open 


122     OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

everywhere  and  at  every  time  for  signs  of  suffer- 
ing among  the  little  ones.  And  often,  where  a 
father  won't  listen  to  advice  from  him,  he  is 
found  amenable  to  suggestions  from  Mrs.  In- 
spector. 

In  every  big  town  in  this  country  you  will  find 
the  N.S.P.C.C.  bureau,  but,  in  spite  of  their 
efforts,  too  much  cruelty  is  going  on  that  might 
be  stopped  if  the  British  people,  as  a  race,  were 
not  too  fond  of  "  minding  their  own  business  " 
and  shutting  their  eyes  to  everyday  evils. 

If  you  still  think  England  a  Christian  and  en- 
lightened country,  you  had  better  accompany  an 
N.S.P.C.C.  man  on  his  daily  round.  Before  you 
do  so,  inspect  the  record  at  their  offices.  Read  the 
verbatim  reports  of  some  of  their  cases.  Look  at 
their  "  museum  "  which  Mr.  Parr,  the  secretary, 
will  show  you;  a  museum  more  hideous  than  any 
collection  of  inquisition  relics  or  than  anything  in 
the  Tower.  You  will  then  know  something  of  the 
hideous  conditions  of  child-life  in  "  this  England 
of  ours,"  and  you  will  be  prepared  for  what  you 
shall  see  on  your  tour  with  the  Kids'  Man. 


CROWDED  HOURS 

What  does  the  Cockney's  mind  first  register 
when,  far  from  home,  he  visualizes  the  London 
that  he  loves  with  the  casual  devotion  of  his  type? 
To  the  serious  tourist  London  is  the  shrine  of 
England's  history;  to  the  ordinary  artist,  who 
sees  life  in  line  and  colour,  it  is  a  city  of  noble  or 
delicate  "bits";  to  the  provincial  it  is  a  play- 
ground; to  the  business  man  a  market;  but  to  the 
Cockney  it  is  one  big  club,  odourous  of  the  goodly 
fellowship  that  blossoms  from  contact  with 
human-kind. 

"  Far  from  the  madding  crowd  "  may  express 
the  longings  of  the  modern  Simeon  Stylites,  but 
your  Cockney  is  no  Simeon.  He  doesn't  pray  to 
be  put  upon  an  island  where  the  crowds  are  few. 
The  thicker  the  crowd,  the  more  elbows  that  delve 
into  his  ribs,  the  hotter  the  steam  of  human-kind, 
the  happier  he  is.  Far  from  the  madding  crowd 
be  blowed !  Man's  place,  he  holds,  is  among  his 
fellows;  and  he  sniffs  with  contempt  at  this  wide- 

123 


124     OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

spread  desire  to  escape  from  other  people.  To 
him  it  is  a  sign  of  an  unhealthy  mind,  if  not  pure 
blasphemy. 

So,  when  he  thinks  of  London,  he  does  not 
think  of  a  city  of  palaces,  or  serene  architectural 
triumphs;  of  a  huckster's  mart  or  a  playground. 
At  the  word  "London"  he  sees  people:  the 
crowds  in  the  Strand,  in  Walworth  Road,  Laven- 
der Hill,  Whitechapel  Road,  Camden  Town 
High  Street. 

Your  moods  may  be  various,  and  London  will 
respond.  You  may  work,  you  may  idly  dream 
away  the  hours,  or  you  may  actively  enjoy  your- 
self in  play;  but  if  you  wish  that  supreme  enjoy- 
ment— the  enjoyment  of  other  people — then  Lon- 
don affords  opportunities  in  larger  measure  than 
any  city  that  I  know. 

I  discovered  the  magic  and  allure  of  crowds 
when  I  was  fourteen  years  old  and  worked  as 
office-boy  in  those  filthy  alleys  marked  in  the 
Postal  Directory  as  "  E.C."  Streets  and  crowds 
became  my  refreshment  and  entertainment  then, 
and  my  palate  is  not  yet  blunted  to  their  savour. 
T  do  not  want  the  flowery  mead  or  the  tree-covered 
lane  or  the  insect-ridden  glade — at  least,  not  for 
long;  and  I  hate  that  dreadful  hollow  behind  the 


CROWDED  HOURS  125 

little  wood.  Give  me  six  o'clock  in  the  evening 
and  a  walk  from  the  City  to  Oxford  Circus, 
through  the  soft  Spring  or  the  darkling  Autumn, 
with  festive  feet  whispering  all  around  you,  and 
your  heart  filled  with  that  grey-green  romance 
which  is  London. 

Once  out  of  Newgate  Street  and  across  Hol- 
born  Viaduct  I  was  happy,  for  I  was,  so  to  speak, 
in  a  foreign  country;  so  wholly  different  were  the 
people  of  Holborn  from  the  people  of  Cheapside. 
The  crowds  of  the  City  had  always  to  me,  a  mean, 
craven  air  about  them.  They  walked  homeward 
with  lagging  steps  and  worn  faces.  They  seemed 
always  preoccupied  with  paltry  problems.  They 
carried  the  stamp  of  their  environment:  a  dusty 
market-place,  in  which  things  made  by  more 
adept  hands  and  brains  are  passed  from  wholesale 
place  to  wholesale  place  with  sorry  bargaining  on 
the  odd  halfpenny. 

But  West  and  West  Central  were  a  pleasuance 
of  the  finer  essences,  and  involuntarily  body  and 
soul  assumed  there  a  transient  felicity  of  gait.  One 
walked  and  thought  suavely.  There  were  noble 
shops,  brilliant  theatres,  dainty  restaurants,  high- 
ways whose  sole  business  was  pleasure,  rent  with 
gay  lights  and  oh !  so  many  delightful  people.    At 


126     OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

restaurant  and  theatre  doors  one  might  pause 
pensively  and  touch  finger-tips,  as  it  were,  with 
rose-leaf  grace  and  beauty  and  fine  comradeship; 
a  refreshing  exercise  after  encounters  with  the  sor- 
did and  the  uncouth  in  Gracechurch  Street.  Then, 
when  the  hoofs  clattered  and  the  motors  hooted 
and  the  whistles  blew,  and  streets  were  drenched 
with  festal  light  and  festal  folk,  I  was,  I  felt, 
abroad.  Figure  to  yourself  that  you  are  walking 
through  the  streets  of  Teheran,  or  Stamboul,  or 
Moscow,  surrounded  by  strange  bazaars  and  peo- 
ple who  seem  to  have  stepped  from  some  book  of 
magic  so  far  removed  are  they  from  your  daily 
interests.  So  did  I  feel  as  I  walked  down  Picca- 
dilly. It  was  suffocating  to  think  that  there  were 
so  many  streets  to  explore,  so  many  types  to  meet 
and  to  know.  I  wanted  then  to  make  heaps  and 
heaps  of  friends — not,  I  must  confess,  for  friend- 
ship— but  just  for  the  sake  of  meeting  people  who 
did  interesting  and  gracious  things,  and  for  the 
sake  of  knowing  that  I  had  a  host  of  friends.  The 
plashing  of  the  fountains  in  Trafalgar  Square, 
the  lights  of  the  Alhambra  and  Empire  seen 
through  the  green  trees  of  Leicester  Square,  the 
procession  of  'buses  along  Holborn  and  Oxford 
Streets,  the  alluring  teashops  of  Piccadilly  and  the 


CROWDED  HOURS  127 

scornful  opulence  of  the  hotels — these  things  sank 
into  me  and  became  part  of  me. 

My  way  to  the  City  lay  through  Leicester 
Square,  and  the  morning  crowd  in  that  quarter 
bears  for  me  still  the  same  charm.  On  a  bright 
Spring  day  it  might  be  Paris.  There  is  a  sense 
of  space  and  sparkle  about  it.  The  little  milli- 
ners' girls,  in  piquant  frocks,  evoke  memories  of 
Louise,  and  the  crowding  curls  on  their  cheeks 
waft  a  perfume  of  youth-time  lyrics,  chiming  softly 
against  the  more  strident  and  repulsively  military 
garb  of  the  girl  porters  and  doorkeepers.  The 
cleaners,  bustling  about  the  steps  of  the  music- 
halls,  throw  adumbrations  of  entertainment  on  the 
morning  streets.  People  are  leisurely  busy  in  an 
agreeable  way — not  the  huckstering  E.C.  way. 

In  Piccadilly  Circus  there  is  the  same  sense  of 
light  and  song  among  the  crowds  emerging  from 
the  Tube.  The  shops  are  decked  in  all  the  colours 
of  the  Maytime,  and  not  one  little  workgirl  but 
pauses  to  throw  a  mute  appeal  to  the  posturing 
silks  and  laces  and  pray  that  the  lily-wristed,  wan- 
ton damsel  of  Fortune  will  turn  a  hand  in  her 
direction. 

But  in  the  City,  as  I  have  said,  there  is  little 
of  this  delight  to  be  found,  either  at  morning,  noon 


128  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

or  night.  The  typical  crowd  of  this  district  may- 
be seen  at  London  Bridge,  where,  from  eight  to 
half-past  ten  in  the  morning  and  from  half-past 
five  to  half-past  seven  in  the  evening,  the  dispirited 
toilers  swarm  to  or  from  work.  Indeed,  it  is  not 
a  crowd :  it  is  a  cortege,  marching  to  the  obse- 
quies of  hope  and  fear.  It  is  a  funeral  march  of 
marionettes.  Here  are  no  gay  colours;  no  smiles; 
no  persiflage.  All  is  sombre.  Even  the  typists 
and  the  little  workgirls  make  no  effort  towards 
bright  raiment;  all  is  dingy  and  soiled,  not  with 
the  clean  dirt  that  hangs  about  the  barges  and 
wharves  on  the  river,  but  wuth  the  mustiness  of 
old  ledgers  and  letter-files.  Listless  in  the  morn- 
ing and  taciturn  in  the  evening  are  these  people; 
and  to  watch  them  for  an  hour  from  the  windows 
of  the  Bridge  House  Hotel  is  to  suffer  an  attack 
of  spiritual  dyspepsia.  For,  among  them,  are 
men  who  have  crossed  that  bridge  twice  daily  for 
thirty  years,  walking  always  on  the  same  side, 
always  at  the  same  pace,  and  arriving  at  the  other 
end  at  precisely  the  same  minute.  There  are  men 
who  began  that  daily  journey  with  bright  boyish 
faces,  clean  collars,  and  their  first  bowler  hats, 
brave  with  the  importance  of  working  in  the  City. 
Their  hearts  were  fired  with  dreams  and  ambi- 


CROWDED  HOURS  129 

tion.  They  had  heard  tales  of  office-boys  who, 
by  industry,  had  been  taken  eventually  into  part- 
nership. They  received  their  first  rise.  Later, 
they  achieved  the  romantic  riches  of  thirty  shill- 
ings a  week.  They  made  the  acquaintance  of  a 
girl  in  their  suburban  High  Street.  They  mar- 
ried. And  now,  at  forty-five,  all  ambition  gone, 
they  are  working  in  the  same  murky  corner  of  the 
same  office,  and  maintaining  wife  and  child  on 
three  pounds  a  week.  Their  trousers  are  frayed 
and  bag  at  the  knees.  Their  coats  are  without 
nap  or  grace.  Two  collars  a  week  suffice.  Gone 
are  the  shining  dreams.  They  have  "  settled 
down,"  without  being  conscious  of  the  fact,  and 
will  make  that  miserable  journey,  with  other  som- 
bre and  silent  phantoms,  until  the  end.  Verily, 
the  London  Bridge  crowd  of  respectables  is  the 
most  tragic  of  all  London  crowds,  and  the  bridge 
itself  a  via  dolorosa. 

I  do  not  know  why  work  in  the  City  should 
produce  a  more  deadening  effect  on  the  souls  of 
the  workers  than  work  in  other  quarters,  but  the 
fact  that  it  does  is  recognized  by  all  students  of 
Labour  conditions.  I  have  worked  in  all  quarters, 
and  have  noticed  a  curious  change  of  outlook 
when  I  moved  from  the  City  to  Fleet  Street,  or 


I30  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

from  Fleet  Street  to  Piccadilly.  You  shall  notice 
it,  too,  in  the  faces  of  the  lunch-time  crowds. 
East  of  St.  Paul's,  the  note  is  apathy.  Coming 
westward,  just  to  Fleet  Street,  you  perceive  a 
change.  Here  boys  and  girls,  men  and  women, 
seem  to  take  an  interest  in  things;  one  under- 
stands that  they  like  their  work.  They  do  not 
regard  it  as  a  mere  routine,  to  be  dragged  through 
somehow  until  the  clock  releases  them. 

A  similar  study  in  crowd  psychology  awaits 
you  at  the  Tube  stations  in  the  early  hours  of  the 
evening,  when  the  rush  is  on.  With  elbows 
wedged  into  your  ribs,  and  strange  hot  breaths 
pouring  down  your  neck,  you  need  all  the  serenity 
you  have  stored  against  such  contingencies;  and 
the  attitude  of  the  other  people  about  you  can 
mitigate  your  distress  or  enhance  it.  The  City 
and  South  London  crowd  is  not  the  kind  of  crowd 
that  can  bear  its  own  troubles  cheerfully,  or  help 
others  to  bear  theirs.  I  would  never  wish  to  go 
on  a  day's  holiday  with  any  of  its  people.  Their 
composite  frame  of  mind  is  one  of  weak  anger, 
expressive  of  "Why  isn't  Something  Done? 
What's  the  use  of  going  on  like  this?  " 

More  comely  is  the  St.  James's  Park  or  West- 
minster crowd.     From  five  to  half-past  six  these 


CROWDED  HOURS  131 

stations  receive  a  i^eady  stream  of  sweet  and 
merry  little  girls  from  the  mushroom  Government 
Departments  that  have  spawned  all  about  this 
quarter.  It  is  girls,  girls,  girls,  all  the  way,  with 
the  feeble  and  the  aged  of  the  male  species  toiling 
behind. 

On  the  Bakerloo  you  find  a  crowd  that  is — well, 
"  rorty  "  is  the  only  word.  The  people  here  are 
mostly  southbound  for  the  Elephant  and  Castle; 
and  you  know  the  Elephant  and  Castle  and  its 
warm,  impetuous  life.  There  are  bold  youths 
who  have  not  fallen,  like  their  fathers,  to  the 
cajolery  of  a  collar-and-cuff  job  in  the  City,  but 
have  taken  up  the  work  that  offers  the  best  pe- 
cuniary reward.  Grimy  youths  they  are,  but  full 
of  vitality,  and  they  pour  down  the  staircase  in  a 
Niagara  of  humanity. 

An  excellent  centre  for  observing  the  varying 
moods  of  the  evening  crowd  is  Villicrs  Street,  that 
gentle  slope  from  which  you  may  reach  Charing 
Cross  Station,  the  Hampstead  Tube,  the  District 
Railway,  or  the  Embankment  trams.  It  is  a 
finely  mixed  company,  for,  as  any  Londoner  will 
tell  you,  the  residents  of  the  hundred  suburbs 
differ  from  one  another  in  manner,  accent  and 
appearance,  even  as  the  natives  of  diflferent  con- 


132     OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

tinents.  Those  who  are  using  the  Hampstead 
Tube  are  sharply  marked  from  those  who  are  tak- 
ing the  Embankment  car  to  Clapham  Junction; 
while  those  who  are  journeying  on  the  South- 
Eastern  to  Croydon  have  probably  never  heard 
of  Upton  Park,  whither  the  District  will  carry 
others.  There  are  well-dressed  people  and  ill- 
dressed  people ;  some  who  are  going  home  to  soup, 
fish,  a  souffle  and  coffee,  with  wine  and  liqueurs; 
and  some  who  are  going  home  to  "  tea,"  at  about 
eight  o'clock — bread-and-margarine  and  bloater 
paste,  with  a  pint  of  tea,  or,  occasionally,  a  bit 
of  tripe  and  onions.  There  are  people  in  a  mad 
hurry,  and  others  who  move  in  aloof  idleness. 
And  above  them  all  stand  the  stalwart  Colonials, 
waiting  until  6.30,  when  the  bars  shall  open, 
airily  inspecting  the  troops  of  girls  and  compar- 
ing notes. 

"  Say  now,  jes'  watch  here.  Here  comes  a  real 
Fanny." 

"  Ah,  gwan.  I  ain'  got  no  time  for  Fannies. 
I  finished  wid  'em.    Gimme  beer,  every  time." 

I  have  often  wanted  to  make  a  song  of  Villiers 
Street,  but  I  have  never  been  able  to  catch  just 
the  essence  of  its  atmosphere.  T  am  sure,  though, 
that  the  modern  orchestra  offers  opportunities  for 


CROWDED  HOURS  133 

one  of  our  new  composers  to  embrace  it  in  an  over- 
ture. No  effort  has  been  made,  so  far  as  I  know, 
to  interpret  in  music  the  noisy  soul  of  the  London 
crowds.  Elgar's  "  Cockaigne  "  overture  and 
Percy  Grainger's  "  Handel  in  the  Strand  "  were 
both  retrospective  in  spirit,  and  the  real  thing  yet 
remains  to  be  done.  It  has  been  done  on  the 
Continent  by  Suppe  (*'  Morning,  Noon  and  Night 
in  Vienna  "),  by  Sibelius  in  his  "  Finlandia,"  by 
Massenet  in  his  "  Southern  Town,"  and  by 
Dvorak  in  "  Carneval  Roman."  I  await  with 
eagerness  a  "  Morning,  Noon  and  Night  at  Char- 
ing Cross,"  scored  by  a  born  Cockney. 


SATURDAY  NIGHT 

The  origins  of  Saturday  night,  as  a  social  institu- 
tion, are  obscure.  No  doubt  a  little  research 
would  discover  them  to  the  earnest  seeker,  but  I 
am  temperamentally  averse  from  anything  like 
research.  It  is  tedious  in  process  and  disappoint- 
ing in  result.  Successful  research  means  grasping 
at  the  reality  and  dropping  the  romance. 

The  outstanding  fact  about  Saturday  night  is 
that  it  is  an  exclusively  British  institution.  Neither 
America  nor  the  Continent  knows  its  precious  joys. 
It  is  one  of  the  few  British  institutions  that  recon- 
cile me  to  being  an  islander.  It  is  a  festival  that 
is  observed  with  the  same  casual  ritual  in  the 
London  slums  and  in  Northumberland  mining  vil- 
lages; in  Scottish  hills  and  in  the  byways  of  the 
Black  Country;  in  Camden  Town  High  Street 
and  in  the  hamlets  of  the  Welsh  marches.  Cer- 
tainly, so  long  as  my  aged  elders  can  carry  their 
memories,  and  the  memories  of  their  fathers  be- 
fore them,  Saturday  night  has  been  a  festival 
recognized  in  all  homely  homes.  Strange  that  it 
has  only  once  been  celebrated  in  literature. 

134 


SATURDAY  NIGHT  135 

It  Is,  as  it  were,  a  short  grace  before  the  meal 
of  leisure  offered  by  the  Sabbath;  a  side-dish  be- 
fore the  ample  banquet;  a  trifling  with  the  olives 
of  sweet  idleness.  On  Saturday  night  the  cares 
of  the  week  are,  for  a  space,  laid  aside,  and  men 
and  women  gather  with  their  kind  for  amiable 
chatter  and  such  mild  conviviality  as  the  times  may 
afford.  Then  the  bonds  of  preoccupation  are 
loosed,  and  men  escape  for  dalliance  with  the 
lighter  things  of  life.  Then  the  good  gossips  in 
town  and  country  take  their  sober  indulgence  in 
the  social  amenities.  In  village  street,  or  raucous 
town  highway,  they  will  pause  between  shops  to 
greet  this  or  that  neighbour  and  discuss  affairs  of 
mutual  concern. 

On  Saturday  night  is  kept  the  festival  of  the 
String  Bag,  one  of  those  many  rigid  feasts  of  the 
people  that  find  no  place  in  the  Kalendar  of  the 
Prayer  Book.  Go  where  you  will  about  the  coun- 
try on  this  night,  and  you  will  witness  the  celebra- 
tion of  this  good  domestic  saint  by  the  cheerful 
and  fully  choral  service  of  Shopping.  Go  to  East 
Street  (Walworth  Road)  ;  to  St.  John's  Road 
(Battersea)  ;  to  Putney  High  Street;  to  Stratford 
Broadway;  to  Newington  Butts;  to  Caledonian 
Road;  to  Upper  Street   (Islington)  ;  to  Norton- 


136     OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

Folgate;  to  Kingsland  Road;  to  Salmon  Lane 
(Limehouse)  ;  to  Mare  Street  (Hackney)  ;  to  the 
Electric  Avenue  (Brixton)  ;  to  Powis  Street 
(Woolwich)  ;  to  the  great  shopping  centres  of 
provincial  cities  or  to  the  easier  market-places  of 
the  rural  district,  and  you  will  find  this  service 
lustily  in  progress;  the  shops  lit  with  a  fresh  glam- 
our for  this  their  special  occasion.  You  will  taste 
a  something  in  the  air — a  sense  of  well-being, 
almost  of  carnival — that  marks  this  night  from 
other  nights  of  the  week.  You  will  see  Mother 
hovering  about  the  shops  and  stalls,  her  eye 
peeled  for  the  elusive  bargain,  while  Father,  or 
one  of  the  children,  stands  away  off  with  the  bag; 
and  when  the  goodwife  has  achieved  all  that  she 
set  out  to  do,  and  the  string  bag  is  distended  like 
an  overfed  baby,  then  comes  the  crowning  joy  of 
the  feast,  when  the  shoppers  slip  together  into  the 
private  bar  of  the  "  Green  Dragon  "  or  the 
"  White  Horse,"  and  compare  notes  with  other 
Saturday-nighters  and  condemn  the  beer. 

Saturday  night  is  also,  in  millions  of  homes, 
Bath  Night;  another  of  the  pious  functions  of  this 
festival;  and  for  this  ceremony  the  attendance  of 
the  heads  of  the  household  is  compulsory.  Then 
the  youngsters,  according  to  their  natures,  howl 


SATURDAY  NIGHT  137 

with  delight  or  alarm  as  their  turn  for  the  tub 
approaches.  They  will  be  scrubbed  by  Mother 
and  dried  by  Father;  and  when  the  whole  brood 
is  well  and  truly  bathed  and  packed  off  to  bed,  the 
elders  will  depart  with  the  string  bag,  and  per- 
chance, if  shopping  be  expeditiously  accomplished, 
take  it,  well-filled,  to  the  second  house  of  the  local 
Empire  or  Palace. 

Do  you  not  remember — unless  you  were  so  un- 
fortunate as  to  be  brought  up  in  what  are  called 
well-to-do  surroundings — do  you  not  remember 
the  tingling  delight  that  was  yours  when,  to  ensure 
correct  behaviour  during  the  week,  the  prospect 
was  dangled  before  you  of  going  shopping  on 
Saturday  night?  Many  Saturday  nights  do  I 
recall,  chiefly  by  association  with  these  shopping 
expeditions,  when  I  was  permitted  to  carry  the 
string  bag;  and  the  shopping  expeditions  again  are 
recalled  through  the  agency  of  smell.  Never  does 
my  memory  work  so  swiftly  as  when  assisted  by 
the  nose;  I  am  a  bit  of  a  dog  in  that  way.  When 
I  catch  the  hearty  smell  of  a  provision  shop,  I 
leap  back  twenty-five  years  and  I  see  the  tempes- 
tuous Saturday-evening  lights  of  Lavender  Hill 
from  the  altitude  of  three-foot-six;  and  I  remem- 
ber how   I   would  catalogue   shop   smells   in  my 


138     OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

mind.  There  were  the  solemn  smell  of  the  furni- 
ture shop;  the  wholesome  smell  of  the  oilshop; 
the  pungent  smell  of  the  chemist's;  the  potent 
smell  of  the  "  Dog  and  Duck,"  where  I  received 
my  weekly  heart-cake ;  the  stiff  smell  of  the  linen- 
drapers  ' ;  the  overpowering  odour  of  the  boot- 
shop,  and  the  aromatic  perfume  of  the  grocer's; 
all  of  which,  in  one  grand  combination,  present 
the  smell  of  Saturday  night:  a  smell  as  sharp  and 
individual  as  the  smell  of  Sunday  morning  or  the 
smell  of  early-closing  afternoon  in  the  suburbs.  If 
Rip  van  Winkle  were  to  awake  in  any  town  or  vil- 
lage on  Saturday  night,  he  would  need  no  calen- 
dar to  name  for  him  the  day  of  the  week:  the 
smell,  the  aspect,  and  the  temper  of  the  streets 
would  surely  inform  him. 

But  lately  Saturday  night  has  come  under  con- 
trol, and  the  severe  hand  of  authority  has 
wrenched  away  the  most  of  its  delight.  Not  now 
may  the  String  Baggers  express  their  individuality 
in  shopping.  Having  registered  for  necessary 
comestibles  at  a  given  shop,  they  enjoy  no  more 
the  sport  of  bargain-hunting,  or  of  setting  rival 
tradesmen  in  cheerful  competition.  Not  now  may 
the  villagers  crowd  the  wayside  station  for  their 
single  weekly  railway  trip   to  the  neighbouring 


SATURDAY  NIGHT  t:^o 

town,  where  was  larger  scope  for  the  perfect 
shopper  than  the  native  village  could  afford.  No 
more  may  the  earnest  London  Saturday-nighter 
journey  by  tram  or  bus  to  outlying  markets  be- 
cause the  quality  of  the  meat  was  better  in  that 
district  than  in  his  own,  or  the  price  of  eggs  a 
penny  lower — though,  if  the  truth  be  known,  these 
facts  were  mostly  proffered  as  excuse  for  the  ex- 
cursion. No  more  do  residents  of  Brixton  travel 
to  Clapham  Junction  for  their  Sunday  stores,  or 
the  elegant  ones  of  Streatham  slink  guiltily  to 
Walworth  Road.  No  more  is  Hampstead  seen 
chaffering  at  the  stalls  of  Camden  Town,  or  Bays- 
water  struggling  gallantly  about  the  shops  of  the 
Edgware  Road  and  Kilburn. 

The  main  function  of  Saturday  night  has  died  a 
dismal  death.  Still,  the  social  side  remains.  Shop- 
ping of  a  sort  still  has  to  be  done.  One  may  still 
meet  one's  cronies  in  the  market  streets,  and  com- 
pare the  bulk  and  quality  of  one's  ration  of  this 
and  that,  and  take  a  draught  of  insipid  ale  at  the 
"  Blue  Pigeon,"  and  talk  of  the  untowardness  of 
the  times.  But  half  of  the  savour  is  gone  out 
of  the  week's  event;  and  it  is  well  that  the  Scots 
peasant  made  his  song  about  it  before  it  was 
controlled. 


RENDEZVOUS 

Although  London  possesses  a  thousand  central 
points  suitable  for  a  street  rendezvous,  Londoners 
seem  to  have  decided  by  tacit  agreement  to  use 
only  five  of  these  for  their  outdoor  appointments. 
They  are :  Charing  Cross  Post  Office,  Leicester 
Square  Tube,  Piccadilly  Tube,  under  the  Clock  at 
Victoria,  and  Oxford  Circus  Tube;  and  I  have 
never  known  my  friends  telephone  me  for  a  meet- 
ing and  fix  a  rendezvous  outside  this  list.  In- 
deed, I  can  now,  by  long  experience,  place  the 
habits  and  character  of  casual  acquaintances  who 
wish  to  meet  me,  from  their  choice  among  these 
places. 

Thus,  a  Charing  Cross  Post  Oflice  appointment 
means  a  pleasure  appointment.  Here,  at  one 
o'clock  on  Saturday  afternoon,  wait  the  bright 
girls  and  golden  boys,  their  faces,  like  living  lamps, 
shining  through  the  cloud  of  pedestrians  as  a 
signal  for  that  one  for  whom  they  wait.  And, 
though  you  be  late  in  keeping  the  appointment, 
you  may  be  certain  that  the  waiting  party  will  be 

140 


RENDEZVOUS  141 

in  placid  mood.  There  is  so  much  to  distract  and 
delight  you  on  this  small  corner.  There  are  the 
bustle  of  the  Strand  and  the  stopping  buses;  the 
busy  sweep  of  Trafalgar  Square,  so  spacious  that 
its  swift  stream  of  traffic  suggests  leisure;  the  hot 
smell  of  savouries  rising  from  the  kitchens  of 
Morley's  Hotel;  and  the  cynical  amusement  to  be 
drawn  from  a  study  of  the  meetings  and  encount- 
ers of  other  waiting  folk.  Hundreds  of  appoint- 
ments have  I  kept  at  Charing  Cross  Post  Office. 
I  have  met  soldier-friends  there,  after  an  absence 
of  three  years.  I  have  met  cousins  and  sisters  and 
aunts,  and  damsels  who  stood  not  in  any  of  these 
relations.  And  I  have  met  the  Only  One  there, 
many,  many  times;  often  happily;  often  in  trepi- 
dation; and  sometimes  in  lyrical  ecstasy,  as  when 
a  quarrel  and  a  long  parting  have  received  the 
benison  of  reconciliation.  Now,  I  can  never  pass 
the  Post  Office  without  a  tremor,  for  its  swart, 
squat  exterior  is,  for  me,  bowered  with  delicious 
thrills. 

Never  keep  an  appointment  under  the  Clock 
at  Victoria.  A  meeting  here  is  fatal  to  the  sweet- 
ness of  the  intercourse  that  is  to  follow.  Always 
he  or  she  who  arrives  first  will  be  peevish  or  irate 
by  the  time  the  second  party  turns  up;  for  Vic- 


142     OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

torla  Station,  with  its  lowering  roof,  affects  you 
with  a  frightful  sense  of  being  shut  in  and  smoth- 
ered. Turn  how  you  will,  sharply  or  gently,  and 
you  cannon  with  some  petulant  human,  and,  re- 
tiring apologetically  from  him,  you  impale  your 
kidney  region  on  some  fool's  walking-stick  or 
umbrella.  That  fool  asks  you  to  look  where 
you're  going,  and  then  he  gets  his  from  a  truck- 
load  of  luggage.  You  laugh — bitterly.  After 
three  minutes  of  waiting  in  that  violet-tinted  bee- 
hive, you  loathe  your  fellow-man;  you  loathe  the 
entire  animal  kingdom.  You  "  come  over  in  one 
of  them  prickly  'eats."  Your  nerves  flap  about 
you  like  bits  of  bunting,  and  the  new  spring  suit 
that  set  in  such  fine  lines  seems  fit  only  for  scar- 
ing birds.  Then  your  friend  arrives,  and  God 
help  him  if  he's  late ! 

I  have  watched  these  Victoria  appointments 
many  times  while  waiting  for  my  train.  The  first 
party  to  the  contract  arrives,  glances  at  the  clock, 
and  strolls  to  the  bookstall,  cheerfully  swinging 
stick  or  umbrella.  He  strolls  back  to  the  clock, 
glances,  compares  it  with  his  watch.  Hums  a  bar 
or  two.  Coughs.  A  flicker  of  dismay  shades  his 
face.  Then  a  handicapped  runner  for  the  6.15 
crashes  violently  against  him  in  avoiding  a  pla- 


RENDEZVOUS  143 

toon  of  soldiers,  and  knocks  his  hat  over  his  eyes 
and  his  stick  ten  yards  away.  When  the  great  big 
world  ceases  turning  and  he  finds  a  voice,  the 
offender  has  gone.  The  next  glance  he  shoots  at 
the  clock  is  choleric.  A  slight  prod  from  an  old 
lady  who  wishes  to  find  the  main  booking-office 
produces  a  spout  of  fury;  and  the  comedy  ends 
with  a  gestic  departure,  in  the  course  of  which 
he  gets  a  little  of  his  own  back  on  other  of  his 
species.  His  final  glance  at  the  clock  is  charged 
with  the  pure  essence  of  malevolence. 

How  much  more  gracious  is  an  appointment  in 
the  great  resounding  hall  of  Euston,  though  this 
is  mainly  a  travellers'  rendezvous  and  is  seldom 
used  for  general  appointments.  Here,  cloistered 
from  the  rush  and  roar  of  the  station  proper,  yet 
always  with  a  cheerful  sense  of  loud  neighbour- 
hood, the  cathedral  mood  is  induced.  You  become 
benign,  Gothic.  There  are  pleasant  straw  seats. 
There  are  writing-tables  with  real  ink.  There  are 
noble  photographs  of  English  beauty-spots,  and 
— oh,  heaps  of  dinky  little  models  of  railway 
trains  and  Irish  Channel  steamers  which  light  up 
when  you  drop  pennies  in  the  slots.  Vast,  serene 
and  episcopal  is  this  rendezvous — it  always  re- 
minds me  of  the  Athenaeum  Club;  and,  however 


144  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

protracted  your  vigil,  it  showers  upon  you  some- 
thing of  its  quality;  so  that,  though  your  friend 
be  twenty  minutes  late,  you  still  receive  him 
affably,  and  talk  in  conversational  tones  of  this 
and  of  that,  instead  of  roaring  the  obvious  like  a 
baseball  fan,  as  Victoria's  hall  demands.  You 
may  even  make  subtle  epigrams  at  Euston,  and 
your  friend  will  take  their  point.  I'd  like  to 
hear  someone  try  to  convey  a  fine  shade  of  mean- 
ing in  Victoria. 

Oxford  Circus  Tube  I  register  as  the  meeting- 
ground  of  the  suburban  flapper  and  the  suburban 
shopping  mamma.  Its  note  is  little  swinging 
skirts,  and  artful  silk  stockings,  and  shining  curls, 
that  dance  to  the  sober  music  of  the  matron's 
rustling  satin.  The  Avaiting  dames  carry  those 
dinky  little  brown-paper  bags,  stamped  with  the 
name  of  some  Oxford  Street  draper,  at  whose  con- 
tents the  idler  may  amuse  himself  by  guessing — a 
ribbon,  a  camisole,  a  flower-spray  for  a  hat, 
gloves,  or  those  odd  lengths  of  cloth  and  linen 
which  women  will  buy — though  Lord  knows  to 
what  esoteric  use  they  put  them.  Hither  come, 
too,  those  lonely  people  who,  through  the  medium 
of  "  Companionship  "  columns  or  Correspondence 
Circles,  have  found  a  congenial  soul.     Why  they 


RENDEZVOUS  145 

choose  Oxford  Circus  I  don't  know,  but  they  are 
always  to  be  seen  there.  You  may  recognize  the 
type  at  first  glance.  They  peer  and  scan  closely 
every  arrival,  for,  though  correspondence  has 
introduced  them  to  the  other  soul,  they  have  not 
yet  seen  the  body,  and  they  are  searching  for 
someone  to  fit  the  description  that  has  been  sup- 
plied; as  thus:  "  I  am  of  medium  height  and  shall 
be  wearing  a  black  hat,  trimmed  with  Michaelmas 
daisies,  and  a  fawn  macintosh,"  or  "  I  am  tall, 
and  shall  be  wearing  a  grey  suit  and  black  soft 
hat  and  spectacles,  and  will  carry  a  copy  of  the 
Buff  Review  in  my  hand."  One  is  pleased  to 
speculate  on  the  result  of  the  meeting.  Is  it 
horrible  disillusion,  or  does  the  flint  find  its  fellow- 
flint  and  produce  the  true  spark?  Do  they  there- 
after look  happily  upon  Oxford  Circus  Tube,  or 
pass  it  with  a  shudder? 

The  crowd  that  hovers  about  the  Leicester 
Square  Tube  entrances  affords  little  matter  for 
reflection.  It  is  so  obvious.  It  is  so  Leicester 
Square.  It  alternately  snarls  and  leers.  It  never 
truly  smiles;  it  is  so  tired  of  the  smiling  business. 
The  loud  garb  of  the  women  tells  its  own  tale. 
For  the  rest,  there  are  bejewelled  black  men,  a 
few  Australian  and  Belgian  soldiers,  and  a  few 


146     OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

disgruntled  and  "  shopless  "  actors.  I  never  accept 
an  appointment  at  Leicester  Square  Tube.  It  puts 
me  off  the  lunch  or  dinner  or  whatever  business  is 
the  object  of  the  meeting.  It  is  ignoble,  squalid, 
with  an  air  of  sickly  decency  about  it. 

A  few  yards  further  Westward,  at  Piccadilly 
Tube,  the  atmosphere  changes.  One  tastes  the 
ampler  ether  and  diviner  air.  It  does  not,  like 
Charing  Cross  Post  Office,  sing  April  and  May, 
but  rather  the  mellowness  of  August  and  Septem- 
ber. Good  solid  people  meet  here;  people  "  com- 
fortably off,"  as  the  phrase  goes;  people  who  have 
lived  largely,  but  have  not  lost  their  capacity  for 
deliberate  enjoyment.  At  meal-times  they  gather 
thickly;  quiet,  dainty  women;  obese  majors;  Gov- 
ernment officials;  and  that  nondescript  type  that 
wears  shabby,  well-cut  clothes  with  an  air  of  pros- 
perity and  breeding.  You  may  almost  name  the 
first  words  that  will  be  spoken  when  a  couple 
meet:  "Well,  where  shall  we  go?  Trocadero, 
Criterion — or  Soho?"  There  is  little  hilarity; 
people  don't  "  let  themselves  go  "  at  this  rendez- 
vous. They  are  out  for  entertainment,  but  it  is 
mild,  well-ordered  entertainment.  The  note  of 
the  crowd  is,  "  If  a  thing  is  worth  doing  at  all, 
it's    worth    doing    well,"    even    if    the    thing    is 


RENDEZVOUS  147 

only  a  hurried  lunch  or  a  curfew-rationed  theatre. 
Classifying  London's  meeting-places  by  their 
moral  atmospheres,  I  would  mark  Charing  Cross 
Post  Office  as  juvenile;  Oxford  Circus  Tube  as 
youth;  Leicester  Square  Tube  as  senility;  Picca- 
dilly Tube  as  middle-age;  the  Great  Hall  at 
Euston  as  reverend  seniority;  and  Victoria  Sta- 
tion— well,  Victoria  Station  should  get  a  total- 
rejection  certificate. 


TRAGEDY  AND  COCKNEYISM 

The  Cockney  is  popularly  supposed  to  stand  for 
the  fixed  type  of  the  blasphemous  and  the  cynical 
in  his  speech  and  attitude  to  life.  He  is  supposed 
to  jump  with  hobnailed  boots  on  all  things  and  in- 
stitutions that  are,  to  others,  sacred.  He  is  sup- 
posed to  admit  no  solemnities,  no  traditional  rites 
or  services,  to  the  big  moments  of  life. 

This  is  wrong.  The  Cockney's  attitude  to  life 
is  perhaps  more  solemn  than  that  of  any  other 
social  type,  save  when  he  is  one  of  a  crowd  of  his 
fellows;  and  then  arises  some  primitive  desire  to 
mock  and  destroy.  He  will  say  "  sir  "  to  people 
who  maintain  their  carriages  or  cars  in  his  own 
district;  but  on  Bank  Holidays,  when  he  visits 
territories  remote  from  his  home,  he  will  roar 
and  chi-ike  at  the  pompous  and  the  rich  wherever 
he  sees  it. 

But  the  popular  theory  of  the  Cockney  is  most 
effectively  exploded  when  he  is  seen  in  a  dramatic 
situation  or  in  some  moment  of  emotional  stress. 
He  does  not  then  cry  "  Gorblimey  "  or  "  Comar- 

148 


TRAGEDY  AND  COCKNEYISM  149 

tovit  "  or  some  current  persiflage  of  the  day;  or 
stand  reticent  and  monosyllabic,  as  some  superior 
writers  depict  him;  but,  from  some  atavistic 
cause,  harks  back  to  the  speech  of  forgotten 
Saxon  forefathers. 

This  trick  you  will  find  reflected  in  the  melo- 
drama and  the  cheap  serial  story  that  are  made 
for  his  entertainment.  It  is  hostile  to  superior 
opinion,  but  it  is  none  the  less  true  to  say  that 
melodrama  does  endeavour  to  reflect  life  as  it  is. 
When  the  wronged  squire  says  to  his  erring  son: 
"  Get  you  gone;  never  darken  my  doors  again," 
he  is  not  talking  a  particular  language  of  melo- 
drama. He  may  be  a  little  out  of  his  part  as  a 
squire;  that  is  not  what  a  father  of  long  social 
position  and  good  education  would  say  to  a  scape- 
grace son;  but  it  is  what  an  untaught  town 
labourer  would  say  in  such  a  circumstance;  and,  as 
these  plays  are  written  for  him,  the  writers  draw 
their  inspiration  from  his  speech  and  manners. 
The  programme  allure  of  the  Duke  of  Bentbor- 
ough.  Lord  Ernest  Swaddling,  Lady  Gwendoline 
Flummery,  and  so  on,  is  used  simply  to  bring  him 
to  the  theatre.  The  scenes  he  witnesses,  and  the 
scenes  he  pays  to  witness,  show  himself  banish- 
ing his  son,  himself  forgiving  his  prodigal  daugh- 


150     OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

ter,  with  his  own  attitudes  and  his  own  speech. 
The  illiterate  do  not  quote  melodrama;  melo- 
drama quotes  them. 

Again  and  again  this  has  been  proved  in  Lon- 
don police-courts.  When  the  emotions  are 
roused,  the  Cockney  does  not  pick  his  words  and 
alight  carefully  on  something  he  heard  at  the 
theatre  last  week;  nor  does  he  become  sullen  and 
abashed.  He  becomes  violently  vocal.  He 
speaks  out  of  himself.  Although  he  seldom  enters 
a  church,  the  grip  of  the  church  is  so  tightly  upon 
him  that  you  may,  as  it  were,  see  its  knuckles 
standing  in  white  relief  when  he  speaks  of  solemn 
affairs.  If  you  ask  him  about  his  sick  Uncle 
John,  he  will  not  tell  you  that  Uncle  John  is  dead, 
or  has  "pegged  out"  or  "snuffed  it";  such 
phrases  he  reserves  for  reporting  the  passing  of 
Prime  Ministers,  Dukes  and  millionaires.  He 
will  tell  you  that  Uncle  John  has  "  passed  away  " 
or  "  gone  home  ";  that  it  is  a  "  happy  release  "; 
and,  between  swigs  at  his  beer,  he  will  give  you 
intimate,  but  carefully  veiled,  details  of  his  pass- 
ing. He  will  never  speak  of  the  elementary,  uni- 
versal facts  of  life  without  the  use  of  euphemism. 
A  young  unmarried  mother  is  always  spoken  of 
as  having  "  got  into  trouble."     It  is  never  said 


TRAGEDY  AND  COCKNEYISM  151 

that  she  is  about  to  have  a  baby;  she  is  "  expect- 
ing." He  never  reports  that  an  acquaintance  has 
committed  suicide;  he  has  "  done  away  with  him- 
self "  or  "  made  a  hole  in  the  water." 

At  an  inquest  on  a  young  girl  in  the  Bermond- 
sey  district,  the  mother  was  asked  when  last  she 
saw  her  daughter. 

"A'Monday.  And  that  was  the  last  time  I 
ever  clapped  eyes  on  her,  as  Gawd  is  my  wit- 


ness." 


At  another  inquest  on  a  Hoxton  girl,  a  young 
railwayman  was  called  as  witness.  Having  given 
his  evidence,  he  suddenly  rushed  to  the  body,  and 
bent  over  it,   and  cried  loudly: — 

"  Oh,  my  dove,  my  dear!  My  little  blossom's 
been  plucked  away!  " 

In  a  police-court  maternity  case,  I  heard  the 
following  from  the  mother  of  the  deserted  girl, 
who  had  lost  her  case:  "  Ah,  God!  an'  shall  this 
villain  escape  from  his  crime  scot-free?  "  And  in 
the  early  days  of  the  war  a  bereaved  woman  cre- 
ated a  scene  at  an  evening  service  in  a  South 
London  Church  with  this  audible  prayer:  "Oh, 
Gawd,  take  away  this  Day  of  Judgment  from  the 
people,  fer  the  sake  of  Thy  Son  Jesus.     Amen." 

Again,  at  Thames  Police  Court,  during  a  case 


152     OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

of  theft  against  a  boy  of  seventeen,  the  father 
was  called,  and  admitted  to  turning  his  son  from 
home  when  he  was  fifteen,  because  of  his  criminal 
ways. 

"  Yerce,  I  did  send  'im  orf.  An'  never  shall  'is 
foot  cross  my  threshold  until  'e's  mended  'is 
evil  ways." 

The  same  reversion  to  passionate  language  may 
be  found  in  many  of  the  unreported  incidents  of 
battle.  I  have  heard  of  Cockneys,  whose  pals 
were  killed  at  their  side,  and  of  their  comment  on 
the  affair  in  the  stress  of  the  moment: — 

"  Old  George !  I  loved  old  George  better'n  I 
loved  anything  in  the  world.  I'd  'ave  give  my 
'eart's  blood  fer  George." 

And  the  cry  of  a  mother  at  the  Old  Bailey, 
when  her  son  was  sentenced  to  death : — 

"  Oh,  take  me.  Take  my  old  grey  'airs.  Let 
me  die  in  'is  stead." — 

And  here  is  the  extraordinary  statement  of  a 
girl  of  fourteen,  who,  tired  of  factory  hours  and 
home,  ran  away  for  a  few  days,  and  then  would 
not  go  back  for  fear  of  being  whipped  by  her 
father.  At  the  end  of  her  holiday  she  gave  her- 
self up  to  the  police  on  the  other  side  of  London 


r 


TRAGEDY  AND  COCKNEYISM  153 

from  her  home,  and  this  was  her  statement  to 
them : — 

"Why  can't  I  go  where  I  want  to?  I  don't 
do  anybody  any  harm.  I  knew  the  world  was 
good.  I  got  tired  of  all  the  monotony,  an'  the 
same  old  thing  every  day,  an'  I  wanted  to  get 
out.  I  am.  Why  bother  me?  I  wonder  why  I 
can't  go  out  and  do  as  I  like,  so  long  as  I  don't 
do  no  harm.  I  thought  the  world  was  so  big  an' 
good,  but  in  reality  living  in  it  is  like  being  in  a 
cage.  You  can't  do  nothing  in  this  world  unless 
somebody  else  consents." 

Strange  wisdom  from  a  child  of  fourteen, 
spoken  in  moments  of  terror  before  uniformed 
policemen  in  that  last  fear  of  the  respectable — 
the  police-station.  But  it  is  in  such  official  places 
that  the  Cockney  loses  the  part  he  is  for  ever 
playing — though,  like  most  of  us,  he  is  playing  it 
unconsciously — and  becomes  something  strangely 
lifted  from  the  airy,  confident  materialist  of 
his  common  moments.  The  educated  man,  on 
the  other  hand,  brought  into  court  or  into  other 
dramatic  surroundings,  ceases  to  be  himself  and 
begins  to  act.  The  Cockney,  normally  without 
dignity,  achieves  it  in  dramatic  moments,  where 


154     OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

the  man  of  position  and  dignity  usually  crumbles 
away  to  rubbish  or   ineptitude. 

Hence,  only  the  wide-eyed  writers  of  melo- 
drama have  successfully  produced  the  Cockney  on 
the  stage.  True,  they  dress  him  in  evening  clothes, 
and  surround  him  with  impossible  butlers  and 
footmen,  but  if  you  want  to  probe  the  Cockney's 
soul,  and  cannot  probe  it  at  first-hand,  it  is  to 
melodrama  and  the  cheap  serial  that  you  must 
turn;  not  to  the  slum  stories  of  novelists  who 
live  in  Kensington  or  to  the  "  low-life  "  plays  of 
condescending  dramatists. 


MINE  EASE  AT  MINE  INN 

When  everything  in  your  little  world  goes 
wrong;  when  you  can  do  nothing  right;  when 
you  have  cut  yourself  while  shaving,  and  it  has 
rained  all  day,  and  the  taxis  have  splashed  your 
collar  with  mud,  and  you  receive  an  Army  notice, 
post-marked  on  the  outer  covering  Buy  National 
War  Bonds  Now — in  short,  when  you  are  fed  up, 
what  do  you  do? 

To  each  man  Ifis  own  remedy.  I  know  one 
man  who,  in  such  circumstances,  goes  to  bed  and 
reads  Eccleslastes;  another  who  goes  on  an  eve- 
ning jag;  another  who  goes  for  a  ten-mile  walk  in 
desolate  country;  another  who  digs  up  his  gar- 
den; another  who  reads  school  stories.  But  my 
own  cure  is  to  board  a  London  tram-car  bound 
for  the  outer  suburbs,  and  take  mine  ease  at  a 
storied  sixteenth-century  inn. 

Where  is  this  harbour  of  refuge?  No,  thank 
you;  I  am  not  giving  it  away.  I  am  too  fearful 
that  it  may  become  popular  and  thereby  spoiled. 
I  will  only  tell  you  that  its  sign  is  "  The  Cheq- 

155 


156     OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

uers " ;  that  it  is  a  low-pitched,  rambling  post- 
house,  with  cobbled  coach-yard,  and  ridiculous 
staircases  that  twist  and  wind  in  all  directions,  and 
rooms  where  apparently  no  rooms  could  be;  that 
it  was  for  a  while  the  G.H.Q,  of  Charles  the 
First;  and  that  it  is  soaked  in  that  ripe,  substan- 
tial atmosphere  that  belongs  to  places  where 
companies  of  men  have  for  centuries  eaten  and 
drunken  and  quarrelled  and  loved  and  rejoiced. 

You  talk  of  your  galleried  inns  of  Chester  and 
Shrewsbury  and  Ludlow  and  Salisbury,  and  your 
thousand  belauded  old-world  villages  of  the 
West.  .  .  .  Here,  within  a  brief  tram-ride  of 
London,  so  close  to  the  centre  of  things  that  you 
may  see  the  mantle  of  metropolitan  smoke  drap- 
ing the  spires  and  steeples,  is  a  place  as  rich  in 
the  historic  thrill  as  any  of  these  show-places. 

But  its  main  charm  for  me  is  the  goodly  fel- 
lowship and  comfortable  talk  to  be  had  in  the 
little  smoking-room,  decorated  with  original 
sketches  by  famous  black-and-white  men  who 
make  it  their  week-end  rendezvous.  You  may  be 
a  newcomer  at  "  The  Chequers,"  but  you  will  not 
long  be  lonely  unless  your  manner  cries  a  desire 
for  solitude.  Its  rooms  are  aglow  with  all  those 
little  delights  of  the  true  inn  that  are  now  almost 


MINE  EASE  AT  MINE  INN  157 

legendary.  One  reads  in  old  fiction  and  drama 
of  noble  inns  and  prodigally  hospitable  landlords; 
but  I  have  always  found  it  difficult  to  accept  these 
pictures  as  truth.  I  have  sojourned  in  so  many 
old  inns  about  the  country,  and  found  little  wel- 
come, unless  I  arrived  in  a  car  and  ordered  ex- 
pensive accommodation.  It  was  not  until  I  spent 
a  night  at  "  The  Chequers  "  that  I  discovered  an 
inn  that  might  have  been  invented  by  Fielding, 
and  a  landlord  who  is  and  who  looks  the  true 
Boniface. 

I  had  missed  the  last  car  and  the  last  train 
back  to  town.  I  wandered  down  the  not  very 
tidy  High  Street,  and  called  at  one  or  two  of  the 
hundred  taverns  that  jostle  one  another  in  the 
street's  brief  length.  The  external  appearance 
of  "  The  Chequers  "  promised  at  least  a  com- 
fortable bed,  and  I  booked  a  room,  and  then 
wandered  to  the  bar.  I  felt  dispirited,  as  I  al- 
ways do  in  inns  and  hotels;  as  though  I  were  an 
intruder  with  no  friend  in  the  world.  I  ordered 
a  drink  and  looked  round  the  little  bar.  My 
company  were  a  police-sergeant  in  uniform,  a 
horsey-looking  man  in  brown  gaiters,  an  elderly, 
saturnine  fellow  in  easy  tweeds,  a  young  fellow 
in  blue  overall — obviously  an  electrician's  mech- 


158     OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

anic — and  a  little,  merry-faced  chap  with  a  long 
flowing  moustache.  I  scrutinized  faces,  and  snif- 
fed the  spiritual  atmosphere  of  each  man.  It  was 
the  usual  suburban  bar  crowd,  and  I  assumed 
that  I  was  in  for  a  dull  time.  The  talk  was  all 
saloon-bar  platitudes — This  was  a  Terrible  War, 
The  rain  was  coming  down,  wasn't  it?  Yes,  hut 
the  farmers  could  do  with  it.  Yes,  hut  you  could 
have  too  much  of  a  good  thing,  couldn't  you? 
Ah,  you  could  never  rely  on  the  English  climate. 
.  .  .  Three  shillings  a  pound  they  were. 
Scandalous.  Robbery.  Somebody  was  making 
some  money  out  of  this  war.  Ah,  there  was  a  lot 
going  on  in  Whitehall  that  the  public  never  heard 
about.  ...  So,  clutching  at  a  straw,  I  opened 
the  local  paper,  and  read  about  A  Pretty  Wed- 
ding at  St.  Matthew's,  and  a  Presentation  to  Mr. 
Gubbins,  and  a  Runaway  Horse  in  the  High 
Street,  and  a 

Then  came  the  felicitous  shock.  From  the 
horsey  man  came  words  that  rattled  on  my  ears 
like  the  welcome  hoofs  of  a  relief-party. 

"  No,  it  wasn't  Euripides,  I  keep  telling  you. 
It  was  Sophocles,"  he  insisted.  "  I  know  it  was 
Sophocles.  I  got  the  book  at  home — in  a  trans- 
lation.    And  I  see  it  played  some  time  ago  in 


MINE  EASE  AT  MINE  INN  159 

town.  Ask  Mr.  Connaught  here  if  I'm  not  right." 
He  grew  flushed  as  he  argued  his  rightness.  I 
followed  the  direction  of  his  nod.  Mr.  Con- 
naught  was  the  disgruntled-looking  man  in  tweeds. 
And  Mr.  Connaught  set  down  his  whisky,  fished 
in  a  huge  well  of  a  side-pocket,  and  produced — 
CEdipus  Rex  in  the  original  Greek,  and  began  to 
talk  of  it. 

I  sank  back,  abashed  at  my  too  previous  judg- 
ment. Here  was  a  man  who,  during  the  half- 
hour  that  I  had  been  sitting  there,  had  talked 
like  a  grocer  or  a  solicitor's  clerk — of  the  obvious 
and  in  the  obvious  way.  It  was  he  who  had  made 
the  illuminating  remarks  that  there  was  a  lot 
going  on  in  Whitehall  that  we  didn't  know  any- 
thing about,  and  that  you  could  never  rely  on  the 
English  climate.  And  now  he  was  raving  about 
Sophocles,  and  chanting  fragments  to  the  assem- 
bled whisky-drinkers.  Tiring  of  Sophocles,  he 
dived  again  into  the  pocket  and  produced  Aristo- 
phanes. 

The  talk  then  became  general.  The  constable, 
apparently  anno^^ed  at  so  much  Latin  and  Greek, 
thrust  into  the  chatter  a  loud  contention  that  when 
a  man  had  finished  with  English  authors,  then 
was  time  enough  to  go  to  the  classics.     Give  him 


i6o  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

Boswell's  Johnson  and  Pepys'  Diary  and  a  set  of 
Dickens  written  in  the  language  of  his  fathers, 
to  keep  on  the  dressing-table,  within  easy  reach 
of  the  bed,  like.  The  electrician's  mechanic 
couldn't  bother  with  novels ;  he  was  up  to  the  neck 
just  now  in  Spencer  and  Hiickel  and  Bergson,  and 
if  we  hadn't  read  Bergson,  then  we  ought  to:  we 
were  missing  something.  Then  somehow  the  talk 
switched  to  music,  and  there  followed  a  disserta- 
tion by  the  police-sergeant  on  ancient  church  music 
and  the  futility  of  grand  opera,  and  names  like 
Palestrina  and  Purcell  and  Corelli  were  thrown 
about,  with  a  cross-fire  of  "  Bitter,  please,  Miss 
Fortescue  " — "  Martell,  please;  just  a  splash  of 
soda — don't  drown  it  " — "  Have  you  tried  the 
beer  at  the  '  Hole-in-the-Wall  ?  ' — horrible 
muck" — "Come  on — drink  up,  there,  Fred; 
you're  very  slow  to-night." 

'*  D'you  know  this  little  thing  by  Sibelius?" 
asked  the  merry  fellow;  and  hummed  a  few  bars 
from  the  Thousand  Seas. 

*'  Ah,  get  away  with  yer  moderns !  "  snapped 
the  police-sergeant.  "  This  Debussy,  Scriabine, 
Schonberg  and  that  gang.  Keep  to  the  simplici- 
ties, I  say — Handel,  Bach,  Haydn  and  Gluck. 
Listen  to  this;  "  and  he  suddenly  drew  back  from 


MINE  EASE  AT  MINE  INN  i6i 

the  bar,  lifted  a  mellow  voice  at  full  strength, 
and  delivered  "  Che  Faro  "  from  Orfeo;  and 
then  took  a  mighty  swig  at  a  pint  tankard  and  said 
that  it  had  just  that  bite  that  you  only  get  when 
it's  drawn  from  the  wood. 

It  took  me  some  time  to  pull  myself  together 
and  sort  things  out.  I  wondered  what  I  had  stum- 
bled upon :  whether  other  pubs  in  this  suburb  of- 
fered similar  intellectual  refreshment;  whether 
all  the  local  tradesmen  were  bookmen  and  music- 
lovers;  and  how  to  reconcile  the  dreary  talk  that 
I  had  first  heard  with  the  enthusiastic  and  in- 
dividual discourse  that  was  now  proceeding.  I 
wondered  whether  it  were  a  dream,  and  how  soon 
I  should  wake  up.  If  it  were  real,  I  wondered 
if  people  would  believe  me  if  I  told  them  of  it. 

But  soon  I  dismissed  all  speculation,  for  by  a 
happy  chance  I  was  drawn  into  the  circle.  Some 
discussion  having  arisen  on  beer  and  its  varying 
quality,  a  member  of  the  company  produced  a 
once-popular  American  pamphlet,  entitled  Ten 
Nights  in  a  Bar-Room;  whereupon  I  handed 
round  a  little  brochure  of  my  own,  compiled,  for 
private  circulation,  from  contributions  by  mem- 
bers of  that  London  rambling  Club,  "  The  Blue- 
skin  Gang,"   and  entitled   Ten  Bar-Rooms  in  a 


i62     OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

Night.  This  pleased  the  company,  and  I  at  once 
became  popular  and  had  to  take  my  part  in  the 
gigantic  beer-drinking.  Then  the  merry-faced 
little  fellow  slipped  away,  and  quickly  returned  to 
counter  my  move  with  an  old  calf-bound  seven- 
teenth-century book.  The  Malt-f Form's  Guide:  a 
description  of  the  principal  London  taverns  of 
the  period,  with  notes  as  to  the  representative 
patrons  and  the  quality  of  the  entertainment,  ma- 
terial and  moral,  offered  by  each  establishment; 
every  page  adorned  with  preposterous  but  cap- 
tivating woodcuts. 

On  my  suggesting  that  "  The  Blueskin  Gang  " 
might  compile  a  similar  guide  on  the  London  bars 
of  to-day,  each  member  of  the  company  burst  in 
with  material  for  such  a  work.  We  decided  that 
it  would  be  impossible  to  follow  the  model  of 
The  Malt-Worm's  Guide  for  such  a  work,  since 
the  London  taverns  of  to-day  are  fast  shedding 
their  individual  character.  Formerly,  one  might 
know  certain  houses  as  a  printers'  bar,  a  journa- 
lists' bar,  a  lawyers',  and  so  on.  The  "  Cock," 
in  Fleet  Street,  remains  a  rendezvous  for  legal 
gentry,  and  the  taverns  between  Piccadilly  and 
Curzon  Street  are  still  "  used  "  by  grooms  and 
butlers;  and  two  Oxford  Street  bars  are  the  un- 


MINE  EASE  AT  MINE  INN  163 

registered  headquarters  of  the  furniture  trade. 
And  do  you  know  the  "  Steam  Engine  "  in  Ber- 
mondsey,  the  haunt  of  the  South-Eastern  Railway 
men,  where  gather  engine-drivers,  firemen,  guards 
and  other  mighty  travellers?  A  pleasant  house, 
with  just  that  touch  of  uncleanliness  that  goes 
with  what  some  people  call  low  company,  and 
produces  a  harmony  of  rough  living  that  is  so 
attractive  to  matey  men.  And  the  Burton  they 
used  to  sell  in  old  times — oh,  boy — as  my  Ameri- 
can friends  say — even  to  think  of  it  gives  you  that 
gr-rand  and  gl-lor-ious  feelin'. 

But  these  places  make  the  full  list.  The  war 
has  largely  obliterated  fine  distinctions.  The  tav- 
erns of  the  Strand  and  its  side  streets,  once  the 
clubs  of  the  lower  Thespians,  have  become  the 
rendezvous  of  Colonial  soldiers.  The  jewellers 
who  once  foregathered  at  the  Monico,  have  been 
driven  out  by  French  and  Belgian  military;  and 
Hummum's,  in  Covent  Garden,  into  which  you 
hardly  dared  enter  unless  you  were  a  market-man, 
has  become  anybody's  property. 

While  I  named  the  taverns  of  central  London 
and  their  pre-war  character,  others  of  the  com- 
pany threw  in  details  of  obscure  but  highly- 
flavoured  houses  in  outlying  quarters  of  the  city 


i64     OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

to  which  their  business  had  at  times  occasioned 
them,  with  much  inside  information  as  to  the 
special  drinks  of  each  establishment  and  its  re- 
gular frequenters.  I  saw  at  once  that  such  a 
work,  if  produced,  would  exceed  the  bulk  of 
Kelly's  Post  Office  Directory,  but  the  discussion, 
though  of  no  practical  value,  gave  me  a  closer 
view  of  the  idiosyncrasies  of  the  company.  The 
lover  of  Sophocles  liked  loud,  jostling  bars,  reek- 
ing with  the  odour  of  crowded  and  violent  hu- 
manity, where  you  truly  fought  for  your  drink; 
where  no  voice  could  be  heard  unless  your  ear 
were  close  upon  it,  and  where  you  had  barely 
room  to  crook  your  elbow:  such  bars  as  you  find 
in  the  poorer  quarters,  as  seem,  at  first  acquain- 
tance, to  be  under  the  management  of  the  Sicilian 
Players.  The  electrician  preferred  a  nice  quiet 
house  where  he  could  sit  down — no  doubt  to  think 
about  Bergsonism.  The  musical  police-sergeant 
had  no  preferences  in  the  matter  of  company  or 
surroundings;  the  quality  of  the  beer  was  all  his 
concern.  The  horsey-looking  man  liked  those 
large,  well-kept,  isolated  suburban  bars  where  you 
might  find  but  two  or  three  customers  with  whom 
you  could  have  what  he  called  a  Good  Old  Talk 
About  Things. 


MINE  EASE  AT  MINE  INN  165 

At  closing  time  I  discovered  that  the  little 
merry-faced  fellow  was  the  host;  indeed,  I  had 
placed  him  in  some  such  capacity,  for  his  face 
might  have  been  preserved  on  canvas  as  the  uni- 
versal type  of  the  jovial  landlord. 

"You're  staying  here,  aren't  you?  Come 
through  to  my  room  for  a  bit.  Unless  you  want 
to  get  off  to  bye-bye." 

I  didn't  want  to  get  off  to  bye-bye.  I  wanted 
to  know  more  of  this  comic-opera  inn.  So  I  fol- 
lowed him  to  his  private  room,  and  I  found  it 
walled  with  books — real  books,  such  as  were 
loved  by  Lamb — The  Anatomy  of  Melancholy, 
Walker's  Original,  The  Compleat  Angler,  an 
Elizabethan  Song-book,  Descartes,  Leopardi, 
Montaigne,  and  so  on.  The  piano  in  the  corner 
bore  an  open  volume  of  Mozart's  Sonatas;  and 
this  extraordinary  Boniface,  having  "  put  the  bar 
up,"  seated  himself  and  played  Mozart  and  Bee- 
thoven and  Schumann  and  Isolde's  "  Liebestod," 
and  morsels  of  Grieg,  until  three  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  when  I  climbed  to  my  room. 

On  the  way  he  showed  me  the  King  Charles 
room  and  the  delightful  eighteenth-century  mez- 
zotints on  the  stair-case  walls,  and  the  secret  way 
from  the  first  floor  to  the  yard.     From  that  night 


i66  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

our  friendship  began.     I  stayed  there  the  follow 
ing  day  and  for  two  days  more,  and  pulled  hi  j 
books  about,  and  roamed  over  the  many  rooms, 
and  met  the  company  of  my  first  night  in  the  bar. 

I  was  charmed  by  the  air  of  intimacy  that  be- 
longs to  that  bar,  deriving,  I  think,  from  the  sweet 
nature  of  the  host.  You  may  stay  at  popular  inns 
or  resplendent  hotels,  and  make  casual  acquain- 
tance in  the  lounges,  and  exchange  talk;  but  it  is 
impossible,  in  the  huge  cubic  space  of  such  estab- 
lishments, to  come  near  to  other  spirits.  You  do 
not  meet  a  man  in  town  and  say:  "What? 
You've  stayed  at  the  '  Royal  York  '  ?  I've  stayed 
there  too,"  and  straightway  develop  a  friendship. 
But  you  can  meet  a  stranger,  and  say:  "What? 
You  know  'The  Chequers?'  D'you  know 
Jimmy?"  and  you  fall  at  once  to  discussing  old 
Jimmy,  the  landlord,  and  you  admit  the  stranger 
to  the  secrets  of  your  heart. 

Jimmy — I  hope  he  won't  mind  my  writing  him 
down  as  Jimmy;  you  have  only  to  look  at  him  to 
know  that  he  cannot  be  James  or  Jim — Jimmy 
radiates  cheer;  whether  in  his  own  inn  or  in  other 
people's.  Among  his  well-smoked  furniture  and 
walls  men  talk  freely  and  listen  keenly.  There  is 
no  obscene  reticence,   no  cunning  reserve.     Un- 


MINE  EASE  AT  MINE  INN  167 

pleasant  men  would  be  miserable  at  "  The 
Chequers";  they  would  seek  some  other  biding- 
place  where  self-revelation  is  kept  within  diplo- 
matic bounds. 

Believe  me,  "  The  Mermaid"  was  not  the  end 
of  the  great  taverns.  What  things  have  we  seen 
done  and  heard  said  at  the  bar  of  "  The 
Chequers."  What  famous  company  has  gathered 
there  on  Sunday  evenings,  artists,  literary  men, 
musicians,  philosophers,  entering  into  fierce  argu- 
ment and  vociferous  agreement  with  the  local  stal- 
warts. In  these  troubled  times  people  are  men- 
tally slack.  They  readily  accept  mob  opinion,  to 
save  themselves  the  added  strain  of  thinking;  and 
eagerly  adopt  the  attitude  that  it  is  idle  to  con- 
cern one&elf  with  intellectual  affairs  in  these  days; 
so  that  there  is  now  no  sensible  talk  to  be  had  in 
bar  or  club.  Wherefore,  it  is  a  relief  to  possess 
one  place — and  that  an  inn — where  one  may  be 
sure  of  finding  company  that  will  join  with  relish 
in  serious  talk  and  put  their  whole  lives  in  a  jest. 
Such  delight  and  refreshment  do  I  find  at  this  inn, 
that  scarcely  a  Saturday  passes  but  I  board  the 
car  and  glide  to  "  The  Chequers  "  in — well,  just 
beyond  the  London  Postal  District. 


RELICS 

The  turning-out  of  the  crowded  drawers  of  an 
old  bureau  or  cabinet  is  universally  known  as  the 
prime  pastime  of  the  faded  spinster;  a  pastime  in 
which  the  starved  spirit  may  exercise  itself  among 
delicious  melancholies  and  wraiths  of  spent  joys. 
Well,  I  am  not  yet  faded,  and  I  am  not  a  spinster; 
but  I  have  fallen  to  the  lure  of  "  turning  out." 
I  have  lately  "  turned  out  " — not  the  musty  sou- 
venirs of  fifty  years  ago,  love,  fifty  years  ago,  but 
the  still  warm  fragments  of  A.D.  19 12. 

The  other  day,  while  searching  irately  In  my 
fumed-oak  rolltop  desk  for  a  publisher's  royalty 
statement  which  he  had  not  sent  me,  I  opened  at 
random  a  little  devil  of  a  drawer  who  conceals  his 
being  in  the  right-hand  lower  corner.  And  lo ! 
out  stepped,  airily,  that  well-polished  gentleman, 
Mr.  Nineteen-Twelve.  My  anger  over  the  mis- 
sing accounts  was  at  once  soothed.  In  certain 
chapters  of  this  book  I  have  harked  back  to  the 
years  before  19 14,  and  it  may  be  that  you  con- 
ceive me  as  a  doddering  old  bore:  a  praiser  of 

168 


RELICS  169 

times  past.  But  what  would  you  have?  You 
have  not  surely  the  face  to  ask  me  to  praise  times 
present? 

So  I  took  a  long  look  at  Mr.  Nineteen-Twelve, 
and  went  thoroughly  through  him.  My  first  dis- 
covery was  an  old  menu.  My  second  discovery 
was  a  bunch  of  menus.  You  won't  get  exasper- 
ated— will  you? — if  I  print  here  the  menu  of  a 
one-and-sixpenny  dinner,  eaten  on  a  hot  June 
night  in  Greek  Street: — 

Hors-d'oeuvre  vari6. 

Consomme  Henri  IV. 
Crerae  Parmentier. 

Saumon  bouiI16. 
Concombre. 

Filet  mignon. 
Pommes  sautes. 
Haricots  verts. 

•  • 

Poulet  en  casserole. 
Salade  saison. 

Praises  aux  liqueurs. 
Glace  vanille. 

Froraages. 

Dessert. 

Caf^. 


170     OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

I  dug  my  hand  deeper  into  the  pockets  of  Mr. 
Nineteen-Twelve,  and  menu  after  menu  and  relic 
after  rehc  came  forth.  There  was  a  menu  of  a 
Lotus  Club  supper.  I'm  hanged  if  I  can  remem- 
ber the  Lotus  Club,  or  its  idea,  or  even  its  situa- 
tion. There  were  old  hotel  bills,  which,  thrown 
together  in  groups,  might  suggest  itineraries  for 
some  very  good  walking  tours;  for  there  were  bills 
from  Stratford-on-Avon  and  Goring-on-Thames 
and  High  Wycombe  and  Oxford  and  Banbury; 
there  were  bills  from  Bognor  and  Arundel  and 
Chichester  and  the  Isle  of  Wight;  there  were  bills 
from  Tintern  and  Chepstow  and  Dean  Forest  and 
Monmouth;  there  were  bills  from  Kendal  and 
Appleby  and  Windermere  and  Grasmere. 
Another  clutching  hand, gave  up  old  menus  from 
the  Great  Western,  the  North-Western,  and  the 
Great  Northern  dining-cars.  In  a  corner  I  found 
an  assortment  of  fancy  cigarette  tins  and  boxes, 
specially  designed  and  engraved  for  various  res- 
taurants and  hotels.  Now  the  cigarette  tins  are 
no  more,  and  the  boxes  are  made  from  flimsy 
card  and  are  none  too  well  printed,  and  many  of 
the  restaurants  from  which  they  came  have  dis- 
appeared, these  elaborate  productions  are  treas- 


RELICS  171 

urable,  not  only  as  echoes  of  the  good  days,  but 
as  objets  d'art. 

Further  search  produced  a  flat  aluminium 
match-case  containing  twelve  vestas,  and  crested 
"With  compliments — Criterion  Restaurant"; 
and  a  tin  waistcoat-pocket  match  box,  also  full, 
containing,  on  the  inside  of  the  lid,  a  charming 
glimpse  of  the  interior  of  the  Boulogne  Restau- 
rant— a  man  and  woman  at  table,  in  19 12  fash- 
ions, lifting  champagne  glasses  and  crying, 
through  a  loop  that  begins  and  finishes  at  their 
mouths  :  "  Evviva  noil  "  The  sight  of  this  streak 
of  matches  spurred  me  to  further  prospecting, 
and  the  pan,  after  careful  washing,  yielded  boxes 
from  Paris,  with  gaudy  dancing-girls  on  either 
cover;  insanely  decorated  boxes  from  Italy,  filled 
with  red-stemmed,  yellow-headed  matches;  plain 
boxes  from  Monaco;  and  from  Ostend,  very 
choice  boxes,  decorated  inside  and  outside  with 
examples  of  the  Old  Masters. 

Packets  of  toothpicks,  with  wrappers  advertis- 
ing various  English  and  Continental  bars,  came 
from  another  corner,  where  they  were  buried 
under  a  torn  page  from  an  old  Tatler,  showing,  in 
various  phases.  Portraits  of  a  Well-Dressed  Man. 


172  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

This  species  being  now  extinct,  I  hope  the  plate 
of  that  page  has  been  destroyed,  so  that  my  relic 
may  possess   some   value.     Two  tickets   for  the 
Phyllis  Court  enclosure  at  Henley  lay  neglected 
under  a  printed  invitation  to  have  "  A  Breath  of 
Fresh  Air  with  the  '  Old  Mitre  '  Christmas  Club, 
Leaving  the   '  Old  Mitre '   by   four-horse  brake 
at  10.30,  to  arrive  at  'The  Green  Man,'   Rich- 
mond, at  12  noon.     A  Whacking  Good  Dinner 
and   a    Meat   Tea.      Dancing   on    the   Lawn   at 
Dusk."     An  old  programme  of  the  Covent  Gar- 
den Grand  Season  recalled  that  magnificent  band 
of  Wagnerians,  Knupfer,  Dittmar,  van  Rooy  and 
the  rest.     Where  are  they  now — these  bull-voiced 
Rhinelanders?     Within  the  programme  covers  I 
found  a  ticket  for  admission  to  the  fight  between 
young  Ahearn  and   Carpentier  which  was  aban- 
doned; a  printed  card  inviting  me  to  a  Tango  Tea 
at  the  Savoy;  a  request  for  the  pleasure  of  my 
company  at  the  Empress  Rooms  to  dance  to  the 
costive  cacophony  of  a  Pink  Bavarian  Band;  and 
half  a  dozen  newspaper  cuttings,  with  scare-heads 
and  cross-heads,  dealing  at  much  length  with  De- 
bussy's   tennis-court   ballet,    "  Jeux,"    danced    by 
Nijinsky,  Schollar  and  Karsavina.     Turning  over 
one  of  these  cuttings,  I  found  a  long  report  of  the 


RELICS  173 

burning  of  a  pillar-box  by  a  Suffragette,  and  a 
list  of  recent  window-breakings. 

A  little  packet  at  the  bottom  caught  my  eye, 
and  I  dived  for  it.  It  was  a  small  box  of  liqueur 
chocolates  from  Rumpelmayer's — unopened,  old 
boy !  unopened.  I  am  a  devil  for  sweets,  and  I 
was  beginning  to  tear  the  wrapper,  when  con- 
science bade  me  pause.  Ought  I  to  eat  them? 
Ought  I  not  first  to  ascertain  whether  there  were 
not  others  whose  need  was  greater  than  mine? 
Think  of  the  number  of  girls  who  would  give 
their  last  hairpin  for  but  one  of  the  luscious  little 
umber  cubes.  What  right  had  I  to  liqueur  choc- 
olates of  19 1 2  vintage?  Conscience  won.  The 
packet  is  still  unopened;  and  if,  within  seven  days 
from  the  appearance  of  these  lines,  the  ugliest 
girl  in  the  W.A.A.C.  will  let  me  have  her  name 
and  address  and  photograph,  it  will  be  sent  to  her. 
Failing  receipt  of  any  application  by  the  specified 
date,  I  shall  feel  free  to  eat  'em. 

Two  others  relics  yet  remained.  One  was  a 
small  gold  coin,  none  too  common,  even  in  those 
days,  and  now,  I  believe,  obsolete.  I  fancy  we 
called  it  a  half-sovereign,  or  half-quid,  or  half- 
thick-un  or  half-Jimmy,  according  to  the  current 
jargon  of  our  set.     The  other  was  a  throw-away 


174     OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

leaflet,  advertising  on  one  side  the  programme  of 
a  London  County  Council  concert  in  Embank- 
ment Gardens,  and  on  the  other  the  cheap  Sunday 
and  Monday  excursions  arranged  by  the  National 
Sunday  League. 

This  was  the  most  heart-breaking  of  all  the  me- 
mentoes. How  many  Sundays,  thnt  otherwise 
might  have  been  masses  of  melancholy,  were 
shattered  into  glowing  fragments  by  these  Inex- 
pensive peeps  at  the  heart  of  England?  I  can 
remember  now  these  fugitive  glimpses,  with  every 
little  incident  of  each  glad  journey;  and  I  am  im- 
pelled to  breathe  a  prayer  from  the  soul  for  the 
well-being  of  the  Sunday  League,  since  it  was  only 
by  the  enterprise  of  the  kindly  N.S.L.  that  I  was 
able  to  see  my  own  country.  Here  I  give  you 
the  list  of  trips,  with  return  fares,  advertised  on 

the  leaflet  before  me : — 

s.  d. 

Brighton 2  6 

Hastings 3  o 

Eastbourne     4  o 

Sheffield    5  o 

Leeds    5  o 

Weston-super-Mare    4  o 

Tintern  Abbey  4  6 

Stratford-on-Avon   4  o 

Warwick    4  o 

Bournemouth 5  o 

Isle  of  Wight 6  o 


RELICS  175 

Cardiff    5  o 

Shrewsbury   4  6 

Margate   3  6 

Heme  Bay 3  o 

Cromer  5  o 

Durham    6  o 

York    5  o 


Sacred  name  of  an  Albert  Stanley! 

Uttering  this  ejaculation,  I  restored  my  treas- 
ures to  their  hiding-place  with  the  fumbling  fingers 
of  the  dew-eyed,  ruminative  spinster,  and  locked 
the  drawer  against  careless  hands;  hoping  that, 
some  day,  some  keen  collector  of  the  rare  and 
curious  might  come  along  and  offer  me  a  blank 
cheque  for  this  collection  of  Nineteen-Twelvlana. 
Looking  it  over,  I  consider  it  a  very  good  Lot — 
well-assorted;  each  item  in  mint  state  and  scarce; 
one  or  two,  indeed,  unique. 

What  offers? 


ATTABOY ! 

On  a  bright  afternoon  of  last  summer  I  suffered 
all  the  thrills  described  in  the  sestet  of  Keats's 
sonnet,  "  On  First  Looking  Into  Chapman's 
Homer."  I  discovered  a  new  art-form.  I  felt 
like  that  watcher  of  the  skies.  I  stood  upon  a 
peak  in  Darien.  But  I  was  not  silent,  for  what 
I  had  discovered  was  the  game  of  baseball,  and 
— incidentally — the  soul  of  America. 

That  match  between  the  American  Army  and 
Navy  teams  was  my  first  glimpse  of  a  pastime 
that  has  captivated  a  continent.  I  can  well  un- 
derstand its  appeal  to  the  modern  temperament; 
for  it  is  more  than  a  game:  it  is  a  sequence  of 
studied,  grotesque  poses  through  which  the  play- 
ers express  all  the  zest  of  the  New  World.  You 
should  see  Williams  at  the  top  of  his  pitch.  You 
should  see  the  sweep  of  Mimms'  shoulders  at  the 
finish  of  a  wild  strike.  You  should  see  Fuller 
preparing  to  catch.  What  profusion  of  vorticist 
rhythms!  With  what  ease  and  finish  they  were 
executed  1     I  know  of  no  keener  pleasure  than 

176 


ATTABOY!  177 

that  of  watching  a  man  do  something  that  he 
fully  knows  how  to  do — whether  it  be  Caruso 
singing,  Maskelyne  juggling,  Balfour  making  an 
impromptu  speech,  a  doctor  tending  a  patient, 
Brangwyn  etching,  an  engineer  at  his  engines, 
Pachmann  at  the  piano,  Inman  at  the  billiard- 
table,  a  captain  bringing  his  ship  alongside,  road- 
men driving  in  a  staple,  or  Swanneck  Rube  pitch- 
ing. Oh,  pretty  to  watch,  sir,  pretty  to  watch! 
No  hesitation  here;  no  feeling  his  way  towards 
a  method;  no  fortuitous  hair's-breadth  triumph 
over  the  nice  difficulty;  but  cold  facility  and  swift, 
clear  answers  to  the  multiple  demands  of  the 
situation.     Oh,  attaboy.  Rube ! 

I  was  received  in  the  Army's  dressing-room  by 
Mimms,  their  captain,  who  said  he  was  mighty 
glad  to  know  me,  and  would  put  me  wise  to  any- 
thing in  the  game  that  had  me  beat.  The  whole 
thing  had  me  beat.  I  was  down  and  out  before 
the  Umpire  had  cried  his  first  "Play  Ball!" 
which  he  delivered  as  one  syllable:  "  Pl'barl !  " 
The  players  in  their  hybrid  costumes — a  mixture 
of  the  jockey  and  the  fencer — the  catcher  in  his 
gas  mask  and  stomach  protector  and  gigantic 
mitt,  and  the  wild  grace  of  the  artists  as  they 
"  warmed  up,"   threw  me  into  ecstasy,   and  the 


178  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

new  thrill  that  I  had  sought  so  long  surged  over 
my  jaded  spirit. 

Then  the  game  began,  and  the  rooting  began. 
In  past  years  I  attended  various  Test  Matches 
and  a  few  football  matches  in  Northern  mining 
districts,  when  the  players  came  in  for  a  certain 
amount  of  barracking;  but  these  affairs  were 
church  services  compared  with  the  furious  abuse 
and  hazing  handed  to  any  unfortunate  who  made 
an  error.  Such  screams  and  eldritch  noises  I 
never  thought  to  hear  from  the  human  voice.  No 
Englishman  could  achieve  them:  his  vocal  cords 
are  not  made  that  way.  There  was,  for  example, 
an  explosive,  reverberating  "  Ah-h-h-h-h-h! " 
which  I  now  practise  in  my  backgarden  in  order 
to  scare  the  sparrows  from  my  early  peas.  But 
my  attempts  are  no  more  like  the  real  thing  than 
Australian  Burgundy  is  like  wine.  I  can  achieve 
the  noise,  but  some  subtle  quality  is  ever  lacking. 

The  whole  scene  was  barbaric  pandemonium: 
the  grandstand  bristling  with  megaphones  and 
tossing  arms  and  dancing  hats  and  demoniac  faces 
offered  a  superb  subject  for  an  artist  of  the  Ne- 
vinson  or  Nash  school.  A  Chinese  theatre  is  but 
a  faint  reflection  of  a  ball  game.  I  had  never 
imagined  that  this  hard,  shell-covered,  business 


ATTABOY!  179 

people  could  break  into  such  a  debauch  of  frenzy. 
You  should  have  heard  the  sedate  Admiral  Sims, 
when  the  Navy  made  a  homer,  with  his  :  "  Atta- 
boy! Oh,  attaway  to  play  ball!  Zaaaa.  Zaaa. 
Zaaa !  "  and  when  his  men  made  a  wild  throw 
he  sure  handed  them  theirs. 

Here  are  a  few  of  the  phrases  hurled  at  offend- 
ing players: — 

"  Aw,  well,  well,  well,  well,  well!  " 

"Ah,  you  pikers,  where  was  you  raised?" 

"  Hey,  pitcher,  is  this  the  ball  game  or  a 
corner-lot  game?  " 

"  Say,  bo,  you  can  play  ball — maybe." 

"  Hey,  catcher,  quit  the  diamond,  and  lemme 
li'l  brudder  teach  yeh." 

"  Say,  who's  that  at  bat?  What's  the  good 
of  sending  in  a  dead  man?  " 

"Aw,  dear,  dear,  dear!  Gimme  some  barb' 
wire.  I  wanter  knit  a  sweater  for  the  barnacle 
on  second." 

"  Oh,  watch  this,  watch  this !  He's  a  bad 
actor.     Kill  the  bad  actor!  " 

"More  ivory — more  ivory!  Oh,  boy,  I  love 
every  bone  in  yer  head." 

"  Get  a  step-ladder  to  it.  Take  orf  that 
pitcher.     He's  pitching  over  a  plate  in  heaven." 


i8o  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

"  Aw,  you  quitter.  Oh.  Oh.  Oh.  Bonehead, 
bonehead,  bonehead.     Ahhhh." 

"  Now  show  'em  where  you  live,  boy.  Let's 
have  something  with  a  bit  of  class  to  it." 

"  Give  him  the  axe,  the  axe,  the  axe." 

"What's  the  matter  with  the  man  on  third? 
'Tisn't  bed-time  yet." 

An  everlasting  chorus,  with  reference  to  the 
scoring-board,  chanted  like  an  anthem: — 

"  Go-ing  up  !     Go-ing  up  !     Go-ing  up  1  " 

At  the  end  of  the  game — the  Navy's  game  all 
the  way — the  fury  and  abandon  increased,  though, 
during  the  game,  it  had  not  seemed  possible  that 
it  could.  But  it  did.  And  when,  limp  and  worn, 
I  shuffled  out  to  Walham  Green,  and  Mimms 
asked  me  whether  the  game  had  got  me,  I  could 
only  reply,  with  a  diminuendo  : — 

"Well,  well,  well,  well,  well!" 

I  shall  never  again  be  able  to  watch  with  in- 
terest a  cricket  or  football  match;  it  would  be 
like  a  tortoise-race  after  the  ball  game.  Such 
speed  and  fury,  such  physical  and  mental  zest,  I 
had  never  before  seen  brought  to  the  playing  of 
a  simple  game.  It  might  have  been  a  life-or- 
death   struggle,   and  the  balls  might  have  been 


ATTABOY!  i8i 

Mills  bombs,  and  the  bats  rifles.  If  the  Ameri- 
cans at  play  give  any  idea  of  their  qualities  at 
battle,  then  Heaven  help  the  fresh  guys  who  are 
up  against  them. 

When  the  boys  had  dressed  I  joined  up  with 
a  party  of  them,  and  we  adjourned  to  the  Claren- 
don; where  one  of  us,  a  Chicago  journalist,  not 
trusting  the  delicacy  of  the  bartender's  hand,  ob- 
tained permission  to  sling  his  own;  and  a  Bronx 
was  passed  to  each  of  us  for  necessary  action. 
This  made  a  fitting  kick  to  the  ball  game,  for  a 
Bronx  is  concentrated  essence  of  baseball;  full  of 
quips  and  tricks  and  sharp  twists  of  flavour;  in- 
ducing that  gr-r-rand  and  ger-1-lorious  feelin'.  It 
took  only  two  of  these  to  make  the  journalist 
break  into  song,  and  he  gave  us  some  excellent 
numbers  of  American  marching-songs.  He  started 
with  the  American  "  Tipperary,"  sung  to  an  air 
of  Sullivan's: — ■ 

Hail,  hail,  the  gang's  all  here! 

What  th'ell  do  we  care? 

What  th'ell  do  we  care? 
Hail,  hail,  the  gang's  all  here, 
So  what  th'ell  do  we  care  now? 

Then  "Happy-land":— 

I  wish  I  was  in  Happy-land, 
Where  rivers  of  beer  abound ; 


i82  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

With  sloe-gin  rickies  hanging  on  the  trees 
And  high-balls  rolling  on  the  ground. 

What? 
High-balls  rolling  on  the  ground? 

Sure! 
High-balls  rolling  on  the  ground. 

> 

Then  the  anthem  of  the  '*  dry  "  States: — * 

Nobody  knows  how  dry  I  am, 

How  dry  I  am, 

How  dry  I  am, 
You  don't  know  how  dry  I  am, 

How  dry  I  am. 

How  dry  I  am. 
Nobody  knows  how  dry  I  am, 
And  nobody  cares  a  damn. 


After  this  service  of  song,  brief,  bright  and 
brotherly,  we  moved  slowly  Eastward,  and  in 
Kensington  Gardens  I  learned  something  about 
college  yells.  For  suddenly,  without  warning,  one 
of  the  party  bent  forward,  with  arms  out- 
stretched, and  yelled  the  following  at  a  pensive 
sheep : — 

"  Alle  ge  reu,  ge  reu,  ge  reu.  War-who-bar-za. 
Hi  ix,  hi  ip;  hi  capica,  doma  nica.  Hong  pong. 
Lita  pica.     Halleka,  balakah,  ba." 

At  first  I  conjectured  that  the  Bronx  was  run- 
ning its  course,  but  when  he  had  spoken  his  piece 
the  rest  of  the  gang  let  themselves  go,  and  I  then 


ATTABOY!  183 

understood  that  we  were  having  a  round  of  col- 
lege yells.  Respectable  strangers  might  have 
mistaken  the  performance  for  the  war  march  of 
the  priests,  or  the  entry  of  the  gladiators,  or  the 
battle-song  of  the  hairy  Ainus;  for  such  monstrous 
perversions  of  sense  and  sound  surely  have  never 
before  disturbed  the  serenity  of  the  Gardens. 

I  understand  that  the  essential  of  a  good  col- 
lege yell  is  that  it  be  utterly  meaningless,  barbaric 
and  larynx-racking.  It  should  seem  to  be  the 
work  of  some  philologist  who  had  suddenly  gone 
mad  under  the  strain  of  his  studies  and  had  at- 
tempted to  converse  with  an  aborigine.  I  think 
Augustana's  yell  pretty  well  fills  that  condition : — 

"  Rocky-eye,  rocky-eye.  Zip,  zum,  zie.  Shin- 
gerata,  shingerata,  bim,  bum,  bie.  Zip-zum,  zip- 
zum,  rah,  rah,  rah.  Karaborra,  karaborra, 
Augas-tana." 

At  the  conclusion  of  this  choral  service  we 
caught  a  bus  to  Piccadilly  Circus  and  I  left  them 
at  the  Tube  entrance  singing  "  Bob  up  serenely," 
and  went  home  to  dream  of  the  ball  game  and 
of  millions  of  fans  screaming  abstruse  advice  into 
my  deaf  ear. 

Oh,  attaboy! 


i84     OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

Since  that  merry  meeting  I  have  had  many 
opportunities  of  getting  next  to  the  American 
Army  and  Navy,  and  hearing  their  views  of  us 
and  British  views  of  them,  and  the  experience 
has  done  me  a  lot  of  good.  Until  then,  the  only 
Americans  I  had  met  were  the  leisured,  over- 
moneyed  tourists,  mostly  disagreeable,  and,  as  I 
have  found  since,  by  no  means  representative  of 
their  country.  You  know  them.  They  came  to 
England  in  the  autumn,  and  stayed  at  opulent 
hotels,  and  made  a  lot  of  noise  around  ancient 
shrines,  and  sent  local  prices  sky-rocketing  wher- 
ever they  stayed,  and  threw  their  weight  and 
fifty-dollar  tips  about,  and  ''  Say'd  "  and  "  My'd  " 
and  "  Gee'd  "  up  and  down  the  Strand;  that  kind 
of  American.  These  people  did  their  country  a 
lot  of  harm,  because  I  and  thousands  of  other 
people  received  them  as  Americans  and  disliked 
them;  just  as  wealthy  trippers  to  and  from  other 
countries  leave  bad  impressions  of  their  people. 
I  made  up  my  mind  on  America  from  my  meet- 
ings with  these  parvenus.  I  had  forgotten  that 
the  best  and  typical  people  of  a  country  are  the 
hard-working,  stay-at-home  people,  whose  labours 
just  enable  them  to  feed  and  clothe  their  children 
and  provide  nothing  for  gadding  about  to  other 


ATTABOY!  185 

countries.  To-day,  the  solid  middle-class  people 
of  England  and  America  are  meeting  and  mixing, 
and  all  political  history  is  washed  out  by  the 
waters  of  social  intercourse  between  them.  High 
officials  and  diplomats  are  for  ever  telling  one 
another  over  official  luncheon  tables  that  the 
friendship  of  this  and  that  nation  is  sealed,  but 
such  remarks  are  valueless  until  the  common  peo- 
ple of  either  country  have  met  and  made  their 
own  decision;  and  the  cost  of  living  does  not  per- 
mit such  meetings.  Thus  we  have  wars  and  un- 
holy alliances.  If  only  the  common  people  of 
all  countries  could  meet  and  exchange  views  in  a 
common  language,  without  the  prejudice  inspired 
by  Press  and  politician,  international  amity  would 
be  for  ever  established,  as  Anglo-American  amity 
is  now  established  by  the  free-and-easy  meeting  of 
hard-working,  middle-class  Americans  and  the 
same  social  type  of  Englishman. 

After  meeting  hundreds  of  Americans  of  a 
class  and  position"  similar  to  my  own,  I  have 
changed  all  my  views  of  America.  We  have 
everything  in  common  and  nothing  to  differ  about. 
I  don't  care  a  damn  on  whose  side  was  right  or 
wrong  in  1773.  I  have  taken  the  boys  round 
London.      I   have   played   their   games.      I   have 


i86     OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

eaten  their  food.  I  have  talked  their  slang  and 
taught  them  mine.  They  have  eaten  my  food, 
and  we  have  sported  joyfully  together,  and  dis- 
cussed music  and  books  and  theatres,  and  amiably 
amused  ourselves  at  the  expense  of  each  other's 
social  institutions  and  ceremonies.  As  they  are 
guests  in  England,  I  have  played  host,  and,  among 
other  entertainment  that  I  have  offered,  I  have 
been  able  to  give  them  what  they  most  needed; 
namely,  evenings  and  odd  hours  in  real  middle- 
class  English  homes,  where  they  could  see  an  Eng- 
lishwoman pour  out  tea  and  see  an  English  baby 
put  to  bed.  I  found  that  they  were  sick  of  the 
solemn  "  functions  "  arranged  for  their  entertain- 
ment. They  didn't  want  high-brow  receptions  or 
musical  entertainments  in  Mayfair.  They  pre- 
ferred the  spontaneous  entertainment  arising 
from  a  casual  encounter  in  the  street,  as  by  ask- 
ing the  way  to  this  or  that  place,  leading  to  an 
invitation  to  a  suburban  home  and  a  suburban 
meal.  From  such  a  visit  they  get  an  insight  into 
our  ways,  our  ideals,  our  outlook  on  life,  better 
than  they  ever  could  from  a  Pall  Mall  club  or  a 
Government  official's  drawing-room.  They  get 
the  real  thing,  which  is  something  to  write  home 
about.      In    the    "  arranged "    affairs    they    are 


ATTABOY!  187 

"  guests  ";  in  the  others,  they  are  treated  with  the 
rude,  haphazard  fellowship  which  we  extend  to 
friends. 

In  these  troubled  days  there  is  little  room  for 
the  exercise  of  the  graces  of  life.  Our  ears  are 
deaf  to  the  gentle  voice  of  urbanity.  The  deli- 
cacies of  intercourse  have  been  trodden  under- 
foot, and  lie  withered  and  broken.  Even  the 
quality  of  mercy  has  been  standardized  and  put 
into  uniform.  Throughout  the  world  to-day, 
everything  is  organized,  and  to  organize  a  beauti- 
ful movement  or  emotion  is  to  brutalize  it:  while 
lubricating  its  mechanism  you  ossify  its  soul. 
Thank  God,  there  is  still  left  a  little  spontaneity. 
Human  impulse  may  be  bruised  and  broken,  but 
it  is  a  fiery  thing,  and  hard  to  train  to  harness 
or  to  destroy;  and  I  can  assure  you  that  the 
Americans  are  grateful  for  it  wherever  it  finds 
expression. 

One  evening,  just  before  curfew — it  was  night 
according  to  the  Government,  but  the  sky  said 
quite  clearly  that  it  was  evening — I  was  standing 
at  my  favourite  coffee-stall  near  King's  Cross, 
eating  hard-boiled  eggs  and  drinking  introspective 
coffee,  and  chatting  with  the  boss  on  the  joy  of 
life. 


i88  OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

"Met  any  of  the  Americans?"  I  asked,  anx- 
ious to  get  his  opinion  of  them. 

"  Met  any?     Crowds  of  'em." 

"  What  do  you  think  of  'em?  " 

"  Oh,  I  dunno.  Bit  of  a  change  after  all  these 
other  foreigners.  'Strewth — d'yeh  know,  when  a 
Cockney  like  yesself  comes  along  to  the  stall  I 
feel  like  dropping  down  dead — 'strewth,  I 
do.  Never  get  none  o'  the  usual  'appy  crowd 
along  now,"  he  went  on,  mopping  the  sloppy 
counter. 

"  But  how  do  the  Americans  strike  you?  " 

"The  Ameircans?  Well.  .  ."  Refolded 
his  arms,  which  with  him  is  the  flourish  prelimi- 
nary to  an  oration.  Here  is  his  opinion,  which  I 
think  sums  up  the  American  character  pretty 
aptly : — 

"  The  Americans.  Well,  nice,  likeable  fellers 
I've  alwis  found  'em.  Don't  'alf  make  for  my 
stall  when  they  come  out  o'  the  station.  Like  it 
better,  they  say,  than  Lady  Dardy  Dinkum's  can- 
teen inside.  And  eat.  .  .  .  Fair  clear  me  out 
every  time  they  come.  I  get  on  with  'em  top-'ole. 
There's  something  about  'cm — I  dunno  what, 
some  kind  o'  kiddishness — but  not  that  exac'ly — 
a  sort  of " 


ATTABOY!  189 

*'  Fresh  delight  in  simple  things,"  I  suggested, 
drawing  on  my  Pelmanized  Bartlett. 

"  That's  jest  it.  Mad  about  London,  y'know. 
Why,  I  bin  in  London  yers  an'  yers,  and  it  don't 
worry  me.  Wants  to  know  which  is  the  oldest 
building  in  London,  and  where  that  bloke  put  'is 
cloak  in  the  mud  for  some  Queen,  an'  where 
Cromwell  was  executed,  and  'ow  many  generals 
is  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey.  'Ow  should  I 
know  anything  about  Westminster  Abbey?  I 
live  in  Camden  Town.  I  got  me  business  t'attend 
to. 

"  There's  a  friend  of  mine,  Mr.  'Ankin,  the 
gentleman  what  takes  the  tickets  at  Baker  Street 
— 'e  met  two  of  'em  t'other  day.  Navy  boys — 
from  the  country,  I  should  think.  D'you  know, 
they  spent  the  'ole  mornin'  ridin'  up  and  down  the 
movin'  staircase — yerce,  and  would  'ave  spent  the 
afternoon,  too,  on'y  one  of  'em  tried  to  run  up  the 
staircase  what  was  comin'  down  an'  .  .  .  Well, 
I  dessay  it  was  good  practice  for  'em,  but,  as  Mr. 
'Ankin  told  'em,  it's  safer  to  monkey  with  a 
U-boat  than  with  a  movin'  staircase.  And  any- 
way, 'e'll  be  out  of  hospital  before  'is  ship's 
moved. 


igo     OUT  AND  ABOUT  LONDON 

"  Yerce,  I  like  the  Americans — what  I've  seen 
of  'em.  No  swank  about  'em,  y'know — officers 
an'  men,  just  alike,  all  pals  together.  Confidence. 
That's  what  they  got.  Talks  to  yeh  matey-like — 
know  what  I  mean — man  to  man  kind  o'  thing. 
Funny  the  way  they  looks  at  England,  though. 
I  s'pose  they  seen  it  on  the  map  and  it  looked 
smallish.  One  feller  come  round  the  stall  t'other 
night,  an'  'e'd  got  two  days'  leave  an'  thought  'e 
could  do  Stratford-on-Avon,  Salisbury  Cathedral, 
Chester,  Brighton,  Edinburgh  Castle,  an'  the  spot 
o'  blood  where  that  American  gel.  Marry 
Queener  Scots,  murdered  'er  boy — all  in  two  days. 
'Ustle,  I  believe  they  calls  it  over  there.  So  I 
told  'im  to  start  'ustlin'  right  away,  else,  when  'e 
got  back,  'e'd  find  'imself  waiting  on  the  carpet, 
waiting  for  the  good  old  C.B.  Likeable  boys, 
though.  'Ere's  to  'em.  No,  I'll  'ave  a  ginger-ale. 
I  don't  drink  me  own  coffee — not  when  I'm 
drinkin'  anyone's  'ealth,  like.  Well,  Attaboy,  as 
they  say  over  there." 


BY      SIMEON      STRUNSKY 


PROFESSOR  LATIMER'S  PROGRESS 

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The  Third  Edition,  Revised  and  Enlarged,  of 

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PROBLEMS  OF  THE  PLAYWRIGHT 

Building  a  Play  Backward;  Surprise  in  the  Drama;  The 
Troublesome  Last  Act;  High  Comedy  in  America;  The  George 
M.  Cohan  School  of  Playnghts;  Middle  Class  Opinion;  Criti- 
cism and  Creation  in  the  Drama;  Dramatic  Talent  and  Theat- 
rical Talent •,  The  Plays  of  Lord  Dunsany;  Romance  and 
Realism  in  the  Drama;  Scenic  Settings  in  America;  The  New 
Stagecraft;  The  Non-Commercial  Drama;  A  Democratic  Insur- 
rection in  the  Theatre;  A  Scheme  for  a  Stock  Company;  What's 
Wrong  with  the  American  Drama,  etc.,  etc. 

Prof.  Brander  Matthews,  in  the  Bookman:  .  .  .Mr.  Hamilton  and 
Mr.  Archer — like  Lessing  and  like  Sarcey — have  a  broad  background  of 
culture.  .  .  .  They  never  stray  into  the  dusty  paths  of  pedantry.  .  .  . 
Consistently  interesting  because  it  has  the  support  of  knowledge  and 
the  savour  of  individuality." 

STUDIES  IN  STAGECRAFT 

The  New  Art  of  Making  Plays,  The  Pictorial  Stage,  The 
Modern  Art  of  Stage  Direction,  A  Plea  for  a  New  Type  of 
Play,  The  Undramatic  Drama,  The  Supernatural  Drama,  The^ 
Irish  National  Theatre,  Where  to  Begin  a  Play,  A  New  Defense 
of  Melodrama,  The  Art  of  the  Moving-Picture  Play,  The  One- 
Act  Play  in  America,  Organizing  an  Audience,  etc.,  etc. 

Nation :  "Information,  alertness,  coolness,  sanity  and  the  command 
of  a  forceful  and  pointed  English.  ...  A  good  book,  in  spite  of 
all  deductions." 

Prof.  Archibald  Henderson,  in  The  Drama:  "University  excellent  in 
quality.  .  .  .  Continually  interesting  in  presentation  .  .  .  uniform  for 
high  excellence  and  elevated  standards.    ..." 

THE  THEORY  OF  THE  THEATRE 

What  is  a  Play? — The  Psychology  of  Theatre  Audiences. — 
The  Actor  and  the  Dramatist. — Stage  Conventions  in  Modern 
Times. — The  Four  Leading  Types  of  Drama. — The  Modern 
Social  Drama,  and  Other  Principles  of  Dramatic  Criticism. — 
The  Public  and  the  Dramatist. — Dramatic  Art  and  the  Theatre 
Business. — Dramatic  Literature  and  Theatric  Journalism. — 
Pleasant  and  Unpleasant  Plays. — Themes  in  the  Theatre. — The 
Function  of  Imagination,  etc.,  etc. 

Bookman:  "Presents  coherently  a  more  substantial  body  of  idea  on 
the  subject  than  perhaps  elsewhere  accessible. 

Boston  Transcript:  "At  every  moment  of  his  discussion  he  has  a 
firm  grasp  upon  every  phase  of  the  subject." 

HENRY    HOLT    AND    COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


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